The Paris Option - Страница 51

All the way forward, Jon found a tiny laundry with a compact washer and dryer and a pile of dirty garments. Clothes lost here were less likely to be missed. He grabbed a shirt and socks to go with the pants he had brought. He dressed quickly and worked his way back aft, where he discovered another necessity for a long time spent at seastacked barrels of diesel fuel. And farther back an answer a large hold with wall brackets and straps to keep cargo steady in heavy seas. There were traces of white powder on the slats of floorboards designed to keep cargo dry even if the sea washed aboard. The powder looked like heroin or cocaine. Most likely, this boat smuggled drugs and, from the heavy straps, maybe guns, too.

All of this told him a great deal, but the emptiness of the cargo compartment revealed more: Today's trip was special, not usual business.

He froze. There was the faint but definite noise of a boat's motor, and it was approaching. He needed a hiding place. He could not use the cargo hold, since it was empty. The tiny cabins were out, since men were assigned there. He had passed the galley aft, which was a possibility. Still, someone would probably get hungry even on a short trip. Thinking rapidly, he hurried back along the narrow passage. Above him, the noise of feet landing on the deck made his pulse accelerate. Voices sounded uncomfortably close above his head.

His chest tight, he finally located a large storage locker all the way forward. It was crammed with ropes, chains, canvas, hatch covers, engine parts, and other supplies needed to maintain a seagoing boat under hard use. As he monitored the noises of the boarding crew, he shoved materiel around until he had a snug hole. Feet sounded in the corridor outside his hiding spot. He scrambled into the hole and pulled a hatch cover over to roof it. He crossed his legs and sank down, nerves pulsing, his back against the bulkhead. His trousers were wet and clammy.

Voices shouted above, and two pairs of feet stopped outside his door. A conversation commenced in Arabic. Suddenly one of the men laughed, then the other, and with relief he listened to the pair move away. As their voices faded, the boat's powerful engines oversized, he judged roared into throbbing life, shaking the entire craft. The anchor rose and clanged against the side, and he felt the boat swing.

The momentum threw him into a coil of rough ropes at his side, and then acceleration slammed him back against the bulkhead. As the boat leaped ahead, gaining speed, he was already beginning to ache. Still, he smiled. He was alive, his Walther was in his hand, and there was promise that on the other side of the ride he would find answers.

Randi stood below the lighthouse of Far de la Mola, the statue of the famous French author Jules Verne nearby, and stared out across the sea to where the faint shape of the sleek motorboat rode steadily south. "He got on the boat okay?"

"He did," Max told her. "After everyone was aboard, and she weighed anchor, I saw nothing going on. No big disturbance or fight, so I'd say he found a place to hide. What happened to the SUV you were tailing?"

"They led us to Barcelona, too, but we lost them in the city."

"You think they lost you deliberately?"

"Yes. We were made." She grimaced with disgust. "Then Salinger, the station chief in Madrid, relayed the information that you'd called for a helicopter. It took us time to pin down the right charter service and squeeze the destination out of them. Then we flew here."

"This could be bad for Jon."

Randi nodded anxiously as she stared out to sea where the speeding boat had disappeared into the gray mists on the horizon. "I know. Even if Jon arrives safely all the way to wherever they're going, he's in trouble."

"What the hell do we do?"

"Get the Seahawk refueled so we can fly to North Africa."

"It's got extra tanks, so it can make it the way it is. But if we try to follow the boat, they'll spot us for sure."

"We won't follow," Randi decided. "We'll locate them and fly straight on to Africa. They'll see us. No doubt about it. But when we fly past without showing interest, they'll figure we're just another chopper on a trip."

"Why fly over them at all?"

"To make sure they're heading for Africa and not Spain, or even Corsica."

"Then what?" Max waited.

"Then we send out everything we can to find them." Her dark eyes turned worriedly back out to sea.

Marseille, France

The fisherman's bar stood among other weather-beaten buildings above the ranked fishing vessels that were moored along the quays. Twilight had fallen, and the waterfront was crowded with the usual roistering throngs that signaled the boats had come in and the fish market was in full swing. Inside the old bar, French and Arabic were the primary languages in the cacophony of loud talk.

A short, stocky man threaded through shifting gray curtains of cigarette smoke. He had the rolling gait of a seaman who had just stepped ashore. He wore jeans, a stained T-shirt revealing muscular arms, and a merchant sailor's cap with a soft white crown, a black rim, and a shiny black peak.

When he reached the copper-topped bar, he leaned toward the bartender and spoke in broken French: "I'm supposed to meet a boat captain named Marius."

The bartender scowled at the bad French. He looked the stranger up and down and finally announced, "Englishman?"

"Oui, yes."

"Off that container ship come in yesterday from Japan?"

"Yes."

"You should learn better French, you come in here."

"I'll take that under consideration," the Englishman said, undisturbed. "What about Marius?"

A typical Marseille feisty character, the bartender glared for a moment, then jerked his head toward a beaded curtain that separated the boisterous main room from a back room. The English "sailor," whose name was Carsten Le Saux and who actually spoke excellent French and was not a sailor at all, thanked the bartender in even worse French and ambled back through the curtain to sit across a scarred table from the only occupant of the room.

As if by a miracle, Le Saux's French improved. "Captain Marius?"

The man at the table was whip-like, of medium height, with the usual thick, dark, Gallic hair worn down to his shoulders and hacked off with a knife. His sleeveless shirt revealed a body that seemed to consist of nothing but bone and muscle. He tossed back a marc, a very cheap brandy, pushed the empty glass away, and sat back is if waiting for something momentous to occur.

Le Saux smiled with his mouth, not his eyes, as he waved to a waiter in a white apron, who was swabbing dirt around on an empty table. "Deux marcs, s'il vous plat."

Captain Marius said, "You're the one who called?"

"That's right."

"You said there were dollars? One hundred of them?"

Carsten Le Saux reached into his trouser pocket and produced a hundred-dollar bill. As he laid it on the table, the captain nodded but did not pick it up. Their marcs arrived. The captain reached for his.

The two men sipped slowly. At last Le Saux said, "I've heard you and your boat had a close call at sea a few nights ago."

"Where did you hear? From who?"

"From a source. He was convincing. He said you were almost run down by some large vessel. A rather unpleasant experience, I expect."

Captain Marius studied the hundred-dollar bill. He picked it up and folded it into an ancient leather pocket purse he produced from somewhere. "It was two nights ago. Fishing had been bad, so I sailed out to a bank I know and most others don't. It was where my father would go when there was no catch closer in." He took a half-crushed packet of cigarettes printed in Arabic from his shirt pocket and extracted a pair of bent, foul-smelling, Algerian cigarettes.

Le Saux took one. Marius lit both, blew a toxic cloud into the air of the curtained room, and leaned closer. His voice was intense, as if he were still shaken by the event. "It came out of nowhere. Like a skyscraper or a mountain. More like a mountain, because it was a behemoth. Only moving. A moving, mountainous behemoth, bearing down on my little boat. No lights inside or outside, so it was darker than the night itself. Later I saw it did have its running lights on, but who could see them so far above, eh?" He sat back and shrugged, as if it no longer mattered. "It missed us to port. We were nearly swamped, but here I am."

"The Charles de Gaulle?"

"Or the Flying Dutchman, he in?"

Carsten Le Saux also sat back, thoughtful. "Why would she be running dark? Were there destroyers? Other ships?"

"I saw none."

"What was her course?"

"From her wake, I'd say south-southwest."

Le Saux nodded. He waved to the waiter again and ordered another pair of marcs. He pushed back his chair, rose, and smiled down at the fishing boat captain. "Merci. Be careful out there." He paid the waiter as he left.

Twilight had turned into indigo night. On the crowded waterfront, the pungent odors of fish and alcohol filled the air. Le Saux paused to gaze at the rows of masts and listen to the lulling sound of ropes slapping against wood hulls. The ancient harbor had supported one city or another here since the days of the Greeks in the seventh century B.C. He turned and gazed around as if he were a tourist, then he walked quickly along above the quays. To his left, on a hill high above Marseille, stood the ornate basilica of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, the modern city's guardian, aglow with light.