fenced-off beach. The building was a laundry. Guns got past it without any problem, then hopped the fence and walked onto the rocks.
From the other side, it had looked as if he could just reach across to the boat from the rocks. But now that he was here, he saw it was actually six or seven feet from the shore. He also saw that there was a doorway in the mosque wall that opened right above the boat.
Guns took off his shoes, rolled up his pants, and plunged into the water. He took about two steps before he realized it was deeper than he’d thought, far deeper — it came above his knees — and with the next step dropped off to his chest. He was committed, though; he pushed down and swam to the wall. He pulled himself up on the slimy stones, twisted a bug so it would work, and stuck it in the wall. The boat bobbed nearby. He was tempted to take it, and then had another idea: why not plant a fly in it?
As he reached into his pocket, he heard voices coming from the other side of the wooden door. He quickly tossed a pair of flies into the boat. Then, not knowing what else to do, he slipped down into the water, took two long strokes, and dove under the surface.
Guns swam as far as he could underwater, then stayed down for two more good strokes before coming up. He took a gulp of air, then slid back down, pushing as strongly as he could, he repeated this two more times, until he felt the water starting to push him forward. He broke the surface and found that he was now about thirty yards beyond the boat. He pushed backward, kicking his legs beneath him. The speedboat had backed away from its mooring and circled toward the sea. By the time it passed him it was riding the waves at a good clip, heading northwestward along the coast.
Guns took a deep breath and began swimming back to the beach where he’d left his shoes. Four strokes later, he realized he hadn’t made any progress against the tide.
Meles is moving,” said Thera, knocking on the door to the bathroom. Ferguson grabbed a towel and pulled on pants, then went out to the common room, where Thera had been watching the feed. The Global Hawk surveillance system showed two SUVs parked in front of the Riviera. The computer processing the unit’s images could be programmed to track and zoom in on up to one hundred different objects within its viewing range; it could distinguish objects roughly a meter square, which made tracking trucks relatively easy, though the city streets could complicate things.
“Khazaal’s still at the castle,” said Thera. “You think that’s where he’s going?
Ferguson studied the feed. If they
So that was the solution. Except he wasn’t ready.
“Wake up Rankin and Monsoon,” he told Thera. “Where’s Guns?”
“Still down by the mosque with Grumpy.”
Ferguson bent down to the laptop and selected the area. But the resolution was not quite fine enough to see people.
“He have a bug showing where he is?” Ferg asked Thera.
“Supposed to.”
He picked up the sat phone and called Guns’s phone. There was no answer.
Rankin and Monsoon, sleepy-eyed, came over.
Ferguson fiddled with the computer, looking for the screen that would show where Guns was. A signal came up offshore, north of the mosque.
“I’m going to take a run out there,” Ferguson told Thera, grabbing his gear. “See if you can get ahold of Van and make sure he’s ready for a pickup. Keep Khazaal and Meles in view if you can. Khazaal’s more important. Rankin. Monsoon. You’re with me.”
It didn’t seem possible that the tide could be this strong. Guns thought it must be some defect in the way he was swimming, not curling his hand right or something. But no matter what he tried, nothing worked.
After nearly fifteen minutes struggling against the tide, Guns felt his arms starting to cramp. He tried to relax, coasting for a bit, but the weight of his pants and long shirt dragged him down. He decided he didn’t need the pants, and stripped to his military-green shorts, then off came his shirt. He had a pistol strapped to his waist and another at his leg; he pulled off the one at his stomach but kept the other. He turned and started stroking with the current, but this didn’t take him any closer to the shore.
“I hate the water,” he said out loud. “If I wanted to die in the water, I would have been a sailor.”
You’re not going to die, he told himself quickly, but once the idea had been planted in his head it began to grow. He tried to fend it off by concentrating on the job at hand, which was to find some way — any way — out of the current. But with each stroke his arms got heavier and his legs more tired.
“Goddamn it,” he said. “Let’s go, marine. Stop being a sissy.”
The pep talk worked for about two minutes. He tried to float to rest, kicking his legs and leaning his body out nearly flat against the surface. When he started to swim again he saw a large boat on the horizon about a half mile offshore. He decided that was his destination and that once he reached it he would be saved. So all he had to do was stroke for a few more minutes, he told himself, ten or fifteen at the most. Then he would get there and give them some cock-and-bull story about falling off a tourist boat, completely in Russian, and be saved.
He’d be ribbed about this forever. Served him right for jumping into the water. He should have had Grumpy covering his butt.
His arms were lead and stiff and dead.
A motor ripped in the distance. Guns turned to see where it was. As he did, his arms collapsed and he sunk below the waves. Something hard grabbed him around the neck and shoulder and dragged him upward.
The air felt like a shock when he broke the water.
“Don’t they teach marines how to swim?” yelled Ferguson. He was swimming alongside him.
“Ferg, man, am I glad to see you.”
“Yeah, no shit. Kick. Come on. We have to grab that rope. See it? Rankin can’t steer to save his life.”
Guns managed a feeble kick, but it was Ferguson who did all the work, towing the marine to the rope and then pulling them both to the boat, where Rankin and Monsoon fished them from the sea. Guns collapsed against the side of the vessel.
“I owe you one, man. I owe all you guys,” said Guns.
“Bet your ass,” said Rankin.
Ferguson stood and tried knocking the water out of his ears. The harbor would not rank among the world’s cleanest, and he was covered with a film of oil. The only reason he couldn’t smell it was that the stench of raw sewage and dead fish was too strong.
“Where’s Grumpy?” asked Guns.
“Not where he was supposed to be,” said Ferguson.
“It wasn’t his fault,” said Guns. “I left him on the other side of the mosque and told him I’d be back.”
“We left him where we stole the boat,” said Ferguson, only slightly mollified. “I told him if the owner came back he should offer himself in trade.”
“You shouldn’t have told him that,” said Guns.
“Why not?”
“He’s a marine. Trained to follow orders. I don’t think he’s got much of a sense of humor.”
22
The scent of the vodka nearly overwhelmed Ravid. When he had started out this evening to get a sense of what the arms dealers were doing, he had felt strong, even dismissive of the need for liquor. But now desire clawed up from his chest, more powerful than sex, more powerful than the will to breathe when underwater. He wanted, he needed a drink.
Was that why he had given himself this assignment after all? Because he knew he would succumb? Because
