Corsair

On closer inspection, as they peered down on her from the quay, they could see where she had sustained damage during her running battle with the American ketch Siren.

Chunks of her bulwarks had been blown apart by cannon shot, and there were a dozen places where fire had scorched the deck. One of her guns was missing, and, judging from the damage around its emplacement, it had exploded at some point during the battle and was lost over the side.

“This is absolutely amazing,” Alana said breathlessly. “It’s a piece of living history.”

“I can almost hear the battle,” Mark agreed.

There was so much more to explore, but for several minutes the four of them stared down on the corsair.

A flicker of movement to his right caught Eric’s attention and broke him from his reverie. He cast the beam of his light back to the remnants of the mangled doorframe just as a figure slipped through. He was about to shout a challenge when an assault rifle opened up ten feet from the first man’s position, its juddering flame winking in the darkness.

In the half second before he reacted, he saw several more gunmen in the uneven light. Bullets filled the air around them when more weapons opened up.

The four had no idea how Al-Jama’s people had found them so quickly, but the fact was clear. They had arrived with almost three-to-one superiority, and more ammunition because they were prepared for a fight, and now they controlled the only way out of the cave.

THIRTY-THREE

JUAN TOOK A SECOND TO LOOK ACROSS THE SEA. IT WAS A view he would never tire of. To him, the ocean was mystery and majesty and the promise of what lay over the horizon. It could be the still, sultry waters of a tropical lagoon or the raging fury of an Asian cyclone tearing away the surface in sheets that stretched for miles. The sea was both siren and adversary, the duality making his love for it all the stronger.

When he’d conceived the Corporation, basing it aboard a ship had been the logical choice. It gave them mobility and anonymity. But he had been secretly pleased by the fact that they would need a vessel like the Oregon so he could indulge in moments like this.

There was a bare whisper of wind, and the waves were gently lapping against the hull as though the ship were a babe rocked in a cradle. This far from shore the air was fresh, tinged with a salt tang that reminded Juan of his childhood on the beaches of southern California.

“Captain, excuse me,” a voice said. “I do not wish to disturb you, but I wanted to thank you again before we leave.”

Juan turned. Standing before him in a suit provided by the Magic Shop was Libya’s former Foreign Minister. He had his hand out.

Cabrillo shook it with genuine warmth. “Not necessary.”

Juan wanted to make sure the escaped prisoners left the Oregon during daylight. He had full confidence in his ship and crew, but no captain ever likes to put people into lifeboats, and doing so at night only compounded the risks. He looked down from the bridge wing at the mass of humanity standing on the deck in the shadow of one of the boats.

They hadn’t been able to provide everyone with new clothes, so many of them sported the rags they’d been wearing since their incarceration. At least they’d had the chance to eat and bathe. A few noted him looking down and waved. It quickly turned into a rousing cheer.

“They would all be dead without you,” the Minister said.

Juan turned back to the diplomat. “Then their lives are thanks enough. We will be in contact with the crewmen I’m sending with you so you’ll know exactly what’s happening. And we should be able to pick you up at first light. If something goes wrong, my men will take you to Tunisia. From there, it’ll be up to you where you go.”

“I will return home,” the Libyan said forcefully, “and somehow take back my job.”

“How was it you were arrested? Was it Ghami who ordered it?”

“No. The Minister of Justice. A political rival of mine. One day I’m Foreign Minister, and the next I’m being shoved into a van and Ghami has my job.”

“When was this?”

“February seventh.”

“And what was Ghami before? He worked for your ministry, right?”

“That is something he wants people to believe. I don’t know what he did before taking my office, but he didn’t work in the Foreign Ministry. What I have been able to piece together is that he managed to get a meeting with President Qaddafi, which is difficult to say the least. The next day it was announced that I had been arrested and Ghami had been named my replacement.”

“Could he have something on Qaddafi, some sort of leverage?”

“You cannot blackmail a man who is President for Life.”

“Hold on one second.” Juan stepped onto the bridge and keyed the wall-mounted microphone. The duty officer in the op center answered straightaway. “Do me a favor,” Juan said. “Check international press reports of any crime involving Libyan nationals going back a month prior to February seventh of this year.”

“What is it you suspect?” the diplomat asked when Juan stepped back outside.

“You don’t give a job like yours to a complete unknown without a reason.” Juan wanted to call Overholt and at the very least demand that the Vice President not attend this evening’s dinner. “I still don’t know if Ghami’s tied to Suleiman Al-Jama, but I don’t trust this guy one whit. He’s put on a hell of a show in diplomatic circles, and orchestrating the summit is the achievement of a lifetime . . .” Juan’s voice drifted off.