Pandora's curse

Everyone exchanged frightened looks.

Rath couldn’t have chosen a more emotionally evocative hostage if he’d tried. The Dalai Lama’s influence beyond his six million Tibetan followers was incalculable. After the pope, the Nobel Peace Prize winner was the most recognized religious figure in the world, seen as a sage statesman and the voice of the oppressed all over the globe.

“The captain has told me you are going after the kidnappers.” The pope’s English was accented yet musical. “I understand why you want to do this thing, but I can’t allow you to sacrifice your lives for the hostages. I have known the Dalai Lama for several years. He would not wish you to trade your life for his. Neither would Dominic Peretti. And in his own way Minister Farquar worships the same God as I do, and my heart tells me that he too would not want you to die to save him.”

Who had been taken hostage meant nothing to Mercer. To him, it didn’t matter if one of them was the Dalai Lama or the guy that fetched the Lama’s morning tea. This wasn’t about hostages or even revenge. It was about preventing the Pandora box from spreading death.

“I understand what you’re saying, Your” — Worship? Holiness? Grace? Mercer didn’t know what title was appropriate — “sir. And I appreciate your concern. But we’re not going to rescue the four hostages. We’re going because Gunther Rath possesses something that threatens every living thing on the planet.” Not knowing if he’d offended the pontiff, Mercer pointed to Anatoly Vatutin. “Father Vatutin can tell you what I’m talking about.”

The pope looked like he was going to ask another question but stopped himself. The determination in Mercer’s eyes and voice was enough to convince him that the men on the speedboat had no intention of martyring themselves. “Go with God and my blessing.”

Mercer felt the power of a billion Catholics behind that simple sentence. “Thank you.” He refocused on Captain Nehring. “Keep trying those radios. Alert the American base at Keflavik as soon as you can. If the Italians get their chopper in the air, send it after us.”

He keyed the Riva’s ignition, and the roar of the engines drowned out any other attempt at conversation. Raeder and Ira hung on tightly as Marty used the crane to lift the boat off its cradle and maneuver it to the launching rails. Mercer took a second to look at Anika. She was at the door of the marina, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. Against his better judgment, he gave her a wink and thought he detected a small crack in her resolve, a tiny lifting at the corners of her mouth. It could have been his imagination.

The canal between the hulls streamed like a swift-flowing river. Marty’s hands were unsure on the crane controls, so when he lowered the Riva, it hit with a powerful splash and immediately bucked against the ropes. Mercer advanced the throttles to the same speed as the Sea Empress and their ride stabilized enough for Ira to cast off the lines.

Like the other extravagant marques Italy is famous for — Masarati, Ferrari, Lamborghini — the Riva came alive when Mercer gave it her head, firewalling the engine controls as soon as she was free. She came on plane and shot from the canyon-like channel, rounding the bow of the Sea Empress. The three men settled dive masks over their faces to protect themselves from the stinging wind and the spray whipped up when she cut through the swells. They wore throat-to-ankle two-piece suits, dive gloves, and hoods, and the goggles covered the last area of exposed skin. As long as the speedboat didn’t encounter seas she couldn’t handle, they would be safe from hypothermia. If she did hit a wave and capsize, the suits would buy them another few minutes in the water, which hovered just a few degrees above freezing.

The night dazzled with swaying tides of auroral light intense enough to hide all but the brightest stars. None bothered to notice. At the helm, Mercer kept his eyes focused to where he thought the horizon line divided sky from sea while Ira watched the compass to make sure they stayed on course. Klaus Raeder hunkered behind them on the bench seat designed for cocktail parties and relaxing soirees. The guns were at his feet. Without wind to roil its surface, the north Atlantic remained calm enough for them to maintain maximum speed.

With the air whipping past them at fifty miles per hour, speaking was out of the question. Instead, the three men were left with their nagging fears, constantly aware that a rogue wave could rear up without warning and end their desperate race. If by some miracle they survived the sea when it shelved against Iceland’s jagged shore, they still had to deal with a determined, and dangerous, Gunther Rath.

Mercer calculated that, with Rath’s one-hour head start, the two boats would reach the coast at about the same time, provided he could maintain their current speed.

That likelihood vanished as the sea grew restless.

It was barely noticeable at first, just a slow undulation like gently rolling hills, but after they were out in the open for an hour, the waves grew until the white slashes of foam topped all but a few of them. The Riva began to rock. Mercer was forced to nose the boat into the waves, pulling them off course so they didn’t take the swells broadside. Even with the Riva throttled back to thirty-five knots, the ride was punishing. The sleek craft became airborne off the larger waves, skipping across swells so that her props thrashed water and air in equal measure. Explosions of black water doused the men as they rode the turgid sea. Punished by their safety straps and lashed by an icy wind from the west, they held tight.

Ira placed his lips to Mercer ear and screamed, “You think Rath will have to slow too?”

Mercer shook his head no. It was too loud to explain that Rath’s larger boat was designed for these kinds of open-water waves. They had been lucky to make up nearly three-quarters of Rath’s lead and could only hope not to lose any ground as they powered northward.

The sea grew rougher still, and with the first blush of dawn smearing the eastern horizon, the wind kicked up. Mercer’s knees burned from the constant flexing and his hands ached from maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the wheel. His feet were soaked from water sloshing around the cockpit and a numbness was creeping up his calves. Through the salt-streaked face mask, he continuously scanned the sea for a glimpse of a wake or a running light. So far nothing.

Behind him, Klaus Raeder threw up.

Mercer spotted a wave twice the size of anything they’d encountered just before it hit. He whipped the wheel into the surging wall of water and the Riva rocketed up its face in a gut-churning swoop. Launched from the crest in a corkscrew flight, the boat landed with her gunwale almost awash and she would have capsized if Mercer hadn’t jerked the wheel in the opposite direction and slammed the throttles to their stops. Before he could fully recover, the next monster wave hit them broadside and water poured into the cockpit. This time there was nothing he could do but pray the wave passed under them before the Riva floundered.

The speedboat tumbled into the trough and Mercer had enough time to kick her around again so they sluiced through the third large wave in the set. It was a masterful demonstration of driving and Ira gave him a wide-eyed stare of disbelief. Mercer’s matching incredulity showed it had been luck and not skill.

The Riva’s bilge pumps cranked overtime.

With no idea when the next big series would hit, Mercer pointed to the west to tell Raeder to keep watch. The German tapped him on the shoulder in acknowledgment. Settled again on their northerly direction, Mercer throttled back slightly for better control and continued their pursuit.

Five more times they hit high rolling sets of waves, and each time Raeder gave Mercer enough warning for him to steer into them. The ranks of swells between the big ones were still large enough to sink the boat, but Mercer had found their rhythm and kept them safe.

After another hour, what appeared at first to be a pinprick of light ahead and slightly to their left slowly revealed itself as a lighthouse. They were approaching the eastern side of the Reykjanes Peninsula, very close to where Iceland’s Keflavik Airport was located. Mercer racked his brain to remember the geography of the area. As he recalled, the only accessible village on this part of the peninsula was the small fishing community of Grindavik, about ten miles farther along the coast.

Assuming Rath would follow the most direct course to Iceland and would need to steal a truck to complete his escape, he edged the Riva to starboard and increased their speed when they entered the coastline’s protective cover. The twin engines sang.

The dawn grew to a white-and-gold ribbon, and the nature of the coast became more clear, forlorn, and tortured by its volcanic creation. Mercer could see the outline of a couple of volcanoes like elongated triangles on the flat plain beyond.

Also revealed in the growing light was a distant speck of white on the water: the wake of a boat running hard. When the others spotted it too, Raeder passed a machine pistol to Ira Lasko and kept one for himself. The