Weary broke the surface and handed the box up as though it contained eggs. Fabergé eggs. Chris leaned forward to take it, eyes like emeralds shining in the dark.
And the sea seemed to catch fire. A brightness spread through it, white at its heart, shading through the color of Christine’s eyes to black again. And above it, the surface heaved up so that Weary found himself looking at a hill of water. Not a wave. A hill. Then the shock hit his body like a charging horse.
Chris and C. J. acted in concert and like lightning. Even as the hill of water was forming, they reached down so that when the shockwave threw him back, they caught his arms and tore him up out of its grip onto the deck. Then, as Katapult rushed forward to swing, rocking round on her anchor chain, the three of them were huddled together beside the box of grenades on the afterdeck. The sound was like the slamming of a huge door close by.
None of them spoke. First they held each other and the box. Then they prayed the anchor would hold them. Then, when it had done so and the water was dark again, Doc hurled himself back down into the seething blackness.
Swimming with manic speed, he followed the anchor chain down, only to pause. Coming up toward him in the dark distance was Sam’s torch, its beam shining purposefully upward in the darkness. With a grunt of relief, he swam toward it, waving his own torch to signal. But Sam, probably stunned by the blast, just kept coming steadily upward. Doc pumped his legs until they popped and creaked, swimming toward his friend marveling that even the torch had survived, supposing that Sam must have found some shelter from that blast.
But then, something made Doc pause and hang motionless in the water. He had been swimming back along Katapult’s length. The brightness of the lights at her stern was striking down through the water more powerfully than his own torch beam. And yet it failed to reveal anything behind the circle of brightness Sam’s torch was throwing. More slowly now, and with a sinking heart, he swam down toward that puny light. It was surprisingly close at hand, shining dazzlingly into his face. At last he gripped it and his fist closed around Sam’s wrist behind it. “Ha!” he shouted, in an exultant cloud of bubbles, and he pulled his friend toward the light. Only to find himself falling backward in the water, fighting to understand why Sam’s bulky body moved so easily.
But then he understood fully. Even as he saw, in the brightness behind the boat they had built together, the torch, the hand, the arm.
And that was all.
The rest of Sam was gone and the torch had floated upward alone, still gripped by that dead hand.
They pulled him out of the water and on to the lazarette together. He had brought nothing back with him. He had simply reared out of the water, clearly in terrible distress, and come toward them, fighting to get aboard. They pulled his twisting, shaking body up onto the afterdeck. Then, three abreast, they had guided his stumbling frame down into the cabin. Once there, Martyr left them, going back to secure all aft.
Chris took off his face mask, and the headband came with it. The cowlick of hair lifted to show that great, scarred forehead.
His eyes were everywhere except on her eyes.
“Doc,” she said gently. “Tell me, Doc. Is Sam dead? Is that it?”
“Sam?” said Doc. “Who’s Sam? Who’re you? Who am I? Sweet Christ almighty, who am I?”
Chapter Thirteen
The shots rang out down the length of Prometheus and Richard was in action at once. He rolled forward to the edge of the forecastle head and swung easily down. The pipes that ran along the center of the deck did not end abruptly. They plunged into the tank system below like plumbing for giants. He had to turn sideways to squeeze among them but then he could hurry forward, as Salah had done, at a slight crouch. The stench of oil was overpowering down here, and, with the shadow so deep in contrast to the sunlight, he had the crazy impression he was wading through crude. But even this failed to slow him. He ran on, fearing the worst.
Midships, he met Salah coming the other way and they took the risk of pausing for a hurried conference. “What were those shots?”
“Warning fire. Making a point. Not as bad as it sounds, Richard. They were shooting over their heads.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They’re all in the gym, just as you reckoned. All twelve terrorists are in there with them. I can’t find out anymore. Something’s going on but I don’t know what. I get the impression it won’t take much longer, though, and when it’s over the terrorists will all be out again. Back on watch.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I checked their watch stations. Bridge, engine room, where you suggested. There were cups of coffee still warm. Stuff half eaten, half done. They’d just gone into the gym when we came onto the scene. They’ll be coming back out soon.”
“Right, That’s it. Let’s go.” As they turned, Richard checked his watch. “We’ll be on our way back here, in thirty-six hours. I hope it stays calm until then!”
They got off in the same way they had boarded and set sail as soon as possible. If Salah was correct, they had been lucky to get this far unobserved, and it would be a pity to hang around too long and make the terrorists suspicious after all. But they had been successful. They had confirmed Prometheus’s position and the disposition of the enemy. It had been a worthwhile reconnaissance. With all of them in high spirits, they motored back to Bahrain as quickly as they could. After an idyllic day’s cruising across the Gulf, which even that stiff, hot southerly could not spoil, they arrived just before sunset and went ashore at once.
This time there was no polite policeman awaiting them. In fact nobody seemed to remark their arrival at all. They went straight to Angus’s apartment. Here, Salah, who had become very quiet during the day, abruptly requested the loan of a djellabah and some robes. Within moments, the Palestinian had transformed himself into an innocuous figure who would blend with the local populace. “I have a visit or two to make tonight,” he said. “I will be back by dawn.”
“Anything I can help with?” asked Richard at once. “Need a good man to watch your back?”
Salah wavered. He was bound for the Soukh and had meant to go alone. He had contacts in the ancient market — or used to have contacts there — who might give him some information. Especially as he had found two further clues on Prometheus that he had definitely not discussed with the Mariners yet. But going into the Soukh alone was dangerous for a man such as himself. Especially if he had to reveal his true identity to too many people. There were many in the Soukh who would happily see him dead. Or who would also quite happily inform the authorities that he was there. In either case, Richard would prove invaluable. On one hand, a faceless, dangerous bodyguard. On the other, a powerful friend who would not easily let him vanish into some hellhole prison without making a fuss about it. But there were dangers for Richard as well. The Palestinian’s wise eyes glanced across to Robin, who was studiously looking out of the window. Angus stepped into the breach at once. “Robin,” he said quietly, “let me take you out to dinner. I will find you the finest meal Manama can offer.”
And she turned to him with a brittle smile. “That would be lovely,” she lied.