"We activate the bowels of the captain of that so-called trawler.. .. Cam, have you got any rope in your tricky bag?"
"No, I don't."
"Not too bright, either. Take off your T-shirt, rip it in strips, and bind Toni's prisoner, hands and feet. With what's left, shove it in the bastard's mouth, and, if you wouldn't mind, a little physical anesthesia would be helpful."
"It'll be a pleasure." Pryce went to work, his assignment taking less than ninety seconds.
"And me, Bray?"
"Wait a minute, lovey," answered Scofield, still staring through the binoculars.
"There he goes. He's heading below, probably to a radio.
He's not watching the shore and obviously there's no one else on board!"
"So?"
"So run back to the house and gather up a few flares, four or five'll be enough. Then dash down the east path, say two or three hundred feet, and send one up."
"Good heavens, why? He'll know we're here!"
"He knows already, dearest. Now we've got to confuse him."
"How?"
"By your racing back to the house and into the west path, past the lagoon, and setting off another flare over there. Ignite the first one, say in eight minutes, the second in eleven, give or take. Don't you remember?"
"I'm beginning to see what you mean.. .. Livorno, Italy, to be precise."
"It worked there, didn't it?"
"Yes, it did, my darling. I'm on my way." Antonia disappeared into the brush.
"Since I was never in Livorno-actually, I was, but not when you two were," protested Cameron, "would you mind telling me what you did there? And, while you're at it, what am I supposed to do?"
"Can you swim?"
"Yes. Professional certification in deep-sea down to three hundred feet, and all certificates in scuba."
"Very commendable, but we have no tanks here or the time for you to get into your Spider-Man outfit. I mean, can you just plain swim?"
"Of course."
"How far in a breach underwater? Without fins?"
"At least fifty to seventy feet."
"That should do it. Go out there, duck beneath the trawler, come up on the other side, get on deck, and take that soon-to-be-confused son of a bitch. Have you got a knife?"
"Need you ask?"
"Get going while our skipper's still below!"
Pryce reached into his flight bag, pulled out his belted hunting knife, strapped it around his waist, and raced to the lapping waters of the each. He plunged in and with strong strokes started toward the trawler two hundred yards away, his open eyes constantly on the deck of the boat. The captain emerged from the below cabin, so Cameron went underwater. Twenty, thirty, forty feet, surfacing for breath in the darkness, then under again and again until he reached the hull of the trawler. He surged beneath it, rising to the air on the starboard side.
He raised his hand in the water and looked at his waterproof watch.
The radium dial told him it had taken nearly six minutes for him to reach the trawler; the first flare would appear in less than two. Slowly he made his way toward the bow. As the initial flare lit up the eastern sky, the captain would undoubtedly race to the stern of his boat, which faced the east. It was his best and possibly sole chance to get on deck without being seen. Cameron understood that his knife was his only weapon and a blade was no match for the captain's bullets.
There it was! The night sky to the left of the trawler exploded with light. It pulsated as the streak was propelled upward, then, reaching an apex, burst again as it briefly remained still, blinding, until it began its slow descent, swinging back and forth as it fell into the tropic forest.
"Mikhail, Mikhail!" screamed the captain, apparently into his radio, while his feet raced across the deck.
"What was that? .. . Mikhail, answer me! Where are you?" Pryce surged up from the water, his arms extended; he reached a lateral rib, merely a small bulge, but it was enough. Fingers gripping the wood, he pulled himself up and flung his right arm above him until his hand grabbed the gunwale; the rest was sheer strength. He crawled over the railing and collapsed onto the deck, his body supine, breathing deeply, his chest heaving. In moments, air was back in his lungs, his excessive heart rate receding.
All the while, the Swedish terrorist-captain kept shouting into the unresponsive radio.
"Mikhail, if you can hear me, I'm going to commence firing! It is your signal to return to the ship immediately!
With or without you, I'm getting out of here!"
So much for the Matarese's sense of brotherly concern, say nothing of loyalty, thought Cameron. The superior officer would leave his subordinates to a deadly unknown to save his own skin. Pryce wondered why he was surprised. Scofield had implied just that.
There was the second explosion! Far to the right, the western sky was on fire, the light more intense, more blinding than the first flare- or was it the sudden cloud cover that cut off the competing moonlight? Cam rose swiftly to his feet as the thundering cannon roared so loudly it had to blow a hole in the palm-laden greenery of Outer Brass 26. He edged his way along the wall of the deck cabin; the moonlight reappeared. The now-hysterical captain ran to the stern of the trawler, the night-vision binoculars held to his eyes.
Thank you, thought Pryce as he walked slowly, silently toward the man's back. It's so much easier when it's easy. With his left clenched fist, he hammered the Swede's lower spine as his right gripped the holster, unsnapping it and ripping out a large .357 automatic. The captain fell to the deck, screaming in pain.
"Come on, Mr. Viking, you're not that hurt, just a little bruise on a vertebra. According to your Aussie recruit, Harry, you're better off than they are. He's convinced that he, London Jack, and fancy Mikhail are going to be sacrificial meat for hungry savages.. .. Get on your feet, you son of a bitch! You blew that CG cutter up, killing all those young men! If I didn't think you could be useful, I'd happily put a bullet in your throat. Up, you scum!"
"Who are you?" choked the captain cautiously, painfully rising.
"How did you get on board?"
"That's for you to wonder about. Maybe I'm the avenging angel come to make you pay for taking the lives of all those youngsters. One thing's certain, you're on your way back to Stockholm."
"No!"
"Oh, yes. I've too many friends there to consider anything else.. ..
Your radio, if you please?"
"Never!" The captain lunged forward, his hands like grappling hooks. Cameron sprang back, crashing his right foot into the terrorist's groin. Again the Swede fell to the deck, groaning and grabbing his testicles.
"You people seem to enjoy inflicting pain, but you're not very good at receiving it, are you? Why doesn't that surprise me?" Pryce knelt down and yanked the walkie-talkie out of the captain's jacket pocket.
He stood up, studied the various buttons in the moonlight, pressed one, and spoke.
"Scofield, are you there, or do I have to yell?"
"Oh, I'm here, laddie buck and I've been listening to a hell of a good scene. Your slime bucket had his radio on Transmit. I guess he was nervous, or confused."
"You've made your point, sir. I'd suggest you get out here and we'll look around."
"Can you believe that's what I was thinking?"
"I can imagine it's
possible."
Their two living, securely bound captives in tow, Antonia and Scofield pulled alongside the trawler.
"What did you do with the elegant dude named Mikhail?" yelled Pryce.
"He's absolutely disappeared, young fella," replied Beowulf Agate.
"It's why we're a bit late."
"What are you talking about? If there's a radio here, they've got our coordinates. They'll find his body!"
"Not likely, Cam," said Scofield.
"We stuffed him with chum, pockets and gullet, and dropped him off at Breeding Sharks Bay, where we keep our boat. As I say, that's why we're a little late getting out here."
"What?"
"No one with a brain in his head swims there. Believe me, he's absolute history, bless the Almighty for those ravenous fish."
The below-deck cabin was a panoply of computer equipment, lining both the starboard and port walls.
"I'll be hanged if I can understand any of this stuff," said Scofield.
"To me, it's all a total mystery," added Antonia.
"Surely one must be a scientist to make them work."
"Not really," said Pryce, sitting down in front of a machine.
"There are basic insertions that take you step by step to the function you want."
"Would you mind translating that?" asked the older man.
"It'd take too long and bore you to death," replied the CIA field agent.
"This particular equipment is still on open-line, which means it's recently been used and was expected to be used again very shortly."
"Is that good?"
"More than good, a blessing. We can pull up a recall, see what's been sent out." Pryce began pressing letters and numbers; bright green words instantly appeared on the black screen.
Insert proper code for recall.
"Damn it!" said Cameron under his breath, getting out of the chair and rapidly heading for the steps of the cabin's entrance.
"I'll be right back," he added.
"I'm bringing down our skipper, who's going to unlock this machine for us or he joins fancy Mikhail in shark heaven!"
Pryce ran up the short steps and looked around on the deck in the progressively elusive moonlight. What he saw paralyzed him-it was impossible. The captain of the so-called trawler was not there; he had been roped to a gunwale cleat but he was not there! Instead, his two companions were a blood-soaked mess, the London cockney obviously dead, the Australian barely alive, his skull crashed open, his eyes losing focus.