“Theoretically, yes. But the Allegro Star has multiple personalities.”
There was the sound of a distant explosion coming from the other side of the harbor. PPC Corp. was still burning. “Let’s get on this thing and go,” said Zak. “Every cop and multiple militaries are looking for us. The faster we get out of Karachi, the happier I’ll be.”
“We have fuel and provisions for ten days,” Jimmy said. “Where are we going?”
“The first order of business is to get the hell out of Karachi,” said Richard. “We’re fugitives. We’ll have to figure out the next step when we get out of here.”
“So we’re leaving Karachi on a dead run and we don’t know where we’re going?”
“Yes, Jimmy,” said Zak. “We live our entire lives that way.”
Kumar nodded to one of the technicians present in the mooring area. “Open up the harbor doors,” he ordered quietly. “Only about half way. And dim the inside lights. We don’t want to advertise this any more than we need to.”
The bay doors slowly retracted, revealing a harbor scene that was far from tranquil. Multiple police boats featuring flashing red, green, and blue lights were cruising up and down the harbor. There were two Coast Guard cutters, one near the Port Grand, and the other toward the mouth of the harbor. Beyond that, between the breakwaters that separated the open ocean from the outer harbor, were two Pakistani Navy cruisers. The far shore of the harbor was a sea of flashing lights from various emergency vehicles. Several helicopters were hovering low over the water, with powerful searchlights playing across the inky waves.
“How the hell are we going to dodge all that, Jimmy?” asked Richard. “A minnow is not going to swim past that without detection.”
Kumar looked at Richard and smiled. “Yousseff’s business is drug smuggling. We have a lifetime of experience slipping in and out of scenes like this.
Now get on board. The Allegro Star can do amazing things.”
29
Dana was placed in a small eight-by-eight concrete cell with a rimless metal toilet and a small bunk bed. She lay down, wondering where she would find $1,000, let alone what might be tens of thousands of dollars for a mistrial. She turned off her laptops, slid into the bottom bunk, curled into fetal position, pulled the covers over her head, and hoped the rest of the world would just go away. The sounds of cell doors clanging, men cursing, people detoxing, and women wailing were too hideous to bear. Childhood memories began to drift through her mind, memories that had taken years to suppress, memories that had required much counseling to remove. No Chris, no Bam-Bam, just the hideous privations of a cold brick cell. She began to silently sob underneath the thin jailhouse blanket. She drifted into troubled sleep. . . .
The Vancouver to Whistler highway, before the Olympics, was a twisty, narrow, dangerous road that required skill and concentration to navigate. Seven-year-old Dana and her mother had just enjoyed a spectacular day on the slopes of Whistler Mountain. They drove home invigorated, using words like “epic” and “totally sick” to describe the wonderful mother-daughter bonding day. As often happens in mountain passes, the weather changed abruptly, and ten miles into their journey home, snow was being deposited at a rate of eight inches per hour. The snowplows and graders had not yet cleared the highway. Halfway through their journey, lights came up behind them—powerful lights. They belonged to a huge Dodge pickup truck with a ten-inch lift kit and Monster Mudder tires. The tires alone were almost as high as the roof of Mrs. Wittenberg’s small Toyota. The pickup belonged to a high-striding seventeen-year-old, fueled by testosterone and beer. Like many his age, he felt that huge tires and four-wheel drive rendered him invincible. The laws of physics, or any laws for that matter, did not apply to him. Mrs. Wittenberg was driving a reasonable speed of 60 kph; the other driver was going 110. He passed them with an angry arrogance, but as he pulled back into the southbound lane, his rear wheels kicked sideways, first left, then right, then left again in gradually increasing arcs.
“Hang on, Dana,” her mother said. “This guy is out of control.” She took her foot off the gas and gently snubbed the brakes. They both watched as the large pickup went from an oscillating rear to doing complete 360s. The Wittenberg Toyota was slowing and under control. Then came the unexpected. A large eight-axle rig loaded down with iron was headed north. He was going at a good clip—after all, he had thirty tires on the pavement and was weighed down by a heavy load. The trucker rounded a corner and there was the kid, doing donuts, wondering how this could happen given that he had four-wheel drive and Monster Mudders.
In an attempt to avoid the pickup, the trucker cut sharply to the right, which unfortunately jackknifed the truck. The rear of the second trailer clipped the pickup truck, and both the trailer and the pickup smashed into the little Toyota at highway speed. The effect of the impact was so great that the hood of the Toyota was dislodged from its mountings and smashed through the front window at a combined speed of over 140 kph. The hood came directly through the windshield. It decapitated Dana’s mother. Dana was not completely spared. A sharp edge caught her forehead and delivered a terrifying laceration that required multitudes of layered stitches to repair. But the pain was nothing in comparison to sitting next to her decapitated mother, blood still pumping through the aorta and spraying out through the carotid arteries.
“Mom!” she screamed. “Mom, mom, mom!” She wanted desperately to hug her but could not look at the monstrosity that seconds before had been her mother. “Mom, mom, mom . . .”
She felt a strong hand gripping her shoulder and shaking her. “Hey,
