Michael Dibdin - And then you die

He lay there, wondering if he had cracked his newly set ribs and then realizing that he could very easily have fallen overboard and drowned. I can't do this alone, he thought. If s all too difficult. I need help.

'Do you need help?'

The voice seemed to have come from everywhere and nowhere. Deafening, raucous and only just comprehensible, it was not a kind or a pleasant voice, but it was the voice of power. Zen raised himself up on one elbow and looked over the canvas screen at the base of the guard rail. A fishing boat of some kind was lying some ten metres off to port. A man on the bridge had a large yellow megaphone in his hand.

'Do you need help?' he repeated.

Zen got up quickly.

'No, we're fine, thanks,' he yelled back, cupping a hand to his mouth. "Thanks all the same. Much appreciated.'

A sign from the man on the bridge indicated that he couldn't hear. A moment later, the trawler reversed engines loudly, men went ahead at a slight angle to come alongside. A man dressed in a filthy green sweatshirt and jeans leapt nimbly across to the after-deck of the motor boat.

'What’s the problem?' he asked.

Zen smiled largely.

'Oh, nothing really. Just a little trouble with the engine. Once I've sorted out the gear I'll anchor and take the appropriate action.' The man looked at him incredulously. 'How many metres of chain have you got?' Zen, of course, hadn't a clue. 'Well…' he began.

'Ifs over fifty metres to the bottom here. The hook would never hold. Where's the motor? Let me take a look. It might be something quite simple.'

He turned and looked around, then strode into the main saloon where Gemma and Roberto Lessi lay stretched out opposite each other.

'No, wait!' Zen said feebly.

But it was too late. The man had found a recessed metal ring in one of the floorboards, and pulled it up to open a concealed hatchway down which he disappeared.

A door at the end of the saloon was open into a cabin with a large double bed. Zen went in, took a blanket from one of the closets and draped it quickly over Lessi's corpse. A moment later the trawlerman returned.

'Blockage in the fuel line,' he said, wiping his hands on his sweatshirt. 'Often happens if the boat’s not used that much. It should be all right now.'

He looked around at the gaudy, vulgar luxury of the saloon. 'Sleeping soundly, your friends.' Zen laughed.

'Yes, they are! We had a bit of a late night. So it's all working normally?'

The man headed out on deck, then ran up the steps to the cockpit and pushed the ignition button. The engine fired immediately and settled into its previous regular throb. Zen took out his wallet.

'How much do I owe you?'

'No, no, that’s all right. Law of the sea, isn't it? We all help each other out. Never know when you might need it next.' Nevertheless, he did not leave. Then Zen had an inspiration. 'Did you have good fishing?' he asked. 'Not bad.'

'Do you have a nice red mullet you could sell me?'

The man's face creased in a broad smile.

‘We got some beauties. Hold on a moment.'

They went down to the afterdeck and he shouted something to one of the men on the trawler. A moment later, the other man reappeared and a large silvery-red object came flying through the air between the boats. Zen's saviour caught it neatly and laid it out on the planking.

'Still twitching,' he remarked. 'Only been out of the water an hour or so.'

'How much?'

The man shrugged.

'Whatever you think.'

Zen handed him a hundred-thousand-lire note.

'Thanks,' he said. 'It’ll make a magnificent lunch.'

'Grazie a lei, e buon appetito’ he called, jumping back to the fishing boat, which nudged ahead and continued on its course.

Zen put the fish away in the fridge, then returned to the cockpit, engaged forward gear and revved die engine slightly. The boat obediently swung round on to its former course. He sat back on the stool and lit a cigarette, feeling pretty smug. He'd sorted everything out. It was all going to be fine.

When he finished the cigarette, he remembered that the anchor was still lying unsecured on the foredeck and went out quickly to retrieve it. A distant drone attracted his attention. To the south, a big twin-rotor military helicopter was making its way up the coast Zen bent down to pick up the anchor and then noticed a small rectangular black box lying just inside one of the scuppers. He recognized it immediately as the emergency communication device he had been given at the Ministry. It must have slipped out of his pocket when he fell. He bent and lifted it up, turning it to replace it. Only then did he notice that the red button on the front was glowing brightly.

It took him a moment to realize what had happened. The fall must have jarred the protective plastic cover loose, and then he had stepped on the device when he went aft to speak to the trawlerman. At which moment, at least fifteen minutes ago now, an all-points red-alert alarm call had gone out to the security services coded with the exact position of a boat carrying not just the indispensable Dottor Zen, supposedly menaced by an unknown but potentially deadly threat, but the bullet-ridden corpse of the late Roberto Lessi, late of the carabinieri's elite ROS unit.

The helicopter was closer now, and heading straight towards the boat. Zen grabbed the black box and hurled it as far as he could into the sea. Please God the thing didn't work underwater. He ran back to the cockpit and gunned the motor to its maximum power. The bow leapt up and a series of increasingly rapid smashing sounds from the oncoming waves made the entire hull shake. Everything not fastened down became mobile, pens and cigarettes and Zen's coffee cup and plate spilling down off the ledge to the deck. Then the helicopter was on them, directly overhead now, the noise of its engines deafening. The boat bucked and shuddered as it slapped down the waves, turning the sea to either side into a creamy vector of foam.

'What the hell's going on?'

The voice was Gemma's, but Zen did not turn. A moment later, she was in the cockpit with him.

'What are you doing? You're driving like a maniac!'

Zen could hear her clearly now, he realized, because the helicopter had gone, pursuing its unwavering course to the northwest. He watched it become small and insignificant, then throttled back and laughed abruptly.

'Couldn't help myself! The boy in me, you know. I just wanted to see how fast it would go.'

Gemma rolled her eyes.

'I fell off the seating and banged my head on the table leg.'

'Sorry, I wasn't thinking.'

All was quiet and calm again now.

'Apart from that, did you sleep well?'

'Like a baby. Boats always put me to sleep.'

'Always?' Zen enquired with an arch look.

'Well, almost always. How have things been here?'

'Very quiet'

'You must be exhausted.'

'Not really. I'm enjoying myself. I'd forgotten how much fun boats are. There's always something that needs attention. Keeps you awake and alert.'

'Don't you want a rest? I'll keep lookout and call you if anything happens.'

'Not until we've disposed of our passenger.'

'And when's that going to be?'

Zen pointed to the video screen.

'When we get here. I don't know exactly how long that will be’ Gemma pushed a button to one side of the screen and read the overlaid display. 'About forty minutes, at the present speed.' 'I can hold out till then. Particularly with another cup of coffee’ 'I'll make some’

Forty-three minutes later the beeper on the navigational display sounded again, announcing that they had arrived at the reference point which Zen had selected. By then he had brought the anchor aft and unhitched one of the mooring lines from its cleat and rolled it up beside the anchor.