Keith Thomson - Twice a Spy

“If that were true, why the hell would you come here?”

Charlie tapped the washing machine.

“Then you’re a fool. And even if you found El Dorado, I’d be a fool to trust you.” Splashing into the alcove, Bream aimed his gun at Charlie. “In fact, I’m a fool to be talking to you at all.”

“Thank you.” Charlie plunged the washing machine’s tattered power cord into the water.

With a bestial wail, Bream flew up in the air. As Charlie had hoped, Bream’s sandals had made him vulnerable to the current; Charlie was protected by his rubber-soled running shoes.

Bream landed in a heap over the washer and lost his hold on the gun. Charlie caught the weapon, spun, and pointed it at him.

The pilot’s muscles quivered. His breathing, however, appeared to have ceased, and the color drained from his skin.

Charlie turned sideways, slipping through the gap between the appliances. He knelt by Steve’s body and pried the remote control from the terrorist’s hand. He aimed the device at the washing machine and clicked. The conic bulb illuminated.

But the detonation mechanism within the washing machine continued to whir.

Gun still trained on Bream, Charlie stepped closer to the washer and tried again.

No change. Maybe the water had shorted the remote control? In any case, he could enter the code by hand. If enough time remained. 07:55, according to the LED adhered to the inside of the washing machine’s lid.

Plenty of time.

Charlie looked at the serial number atop the control panel. The metal band he’d used in the Caribbean had been removed, replaced by a strip of tape with different numbers. He realized why with harrowing clarity: There was nothing wrong with the remote control. The Nobel-caliber scientist, Dr. Vivek Zakir, had been clever enough to build a remote control to be used to initiate detonation only. He had removed the real serial number for the same reason, as a fail-safe in case the martyr developed cold feet in the 9:58 between pressing the button and the hereafter.

Unable to recall the actual code, Charlie knew of no way to stop the detonation.

07:34.

Charlie could call 911, explain that he was aboard a yacht with two dead bodies and a nuclear bomb, although it wasn’t really nuclear-part of a secret CIA program-yet it still packed enough high-grade plastic explosive to take out a good percentage of the people in the vicinity, and it had been triggered, so you really ought to hurry.

If he succeeded, the bomb squad would then have 00:04 to arrive and do its job.

Discarding that idea, he dug the boat keys from Steve’s pocket and raced up the stairs. He intended to untie the yacht and drive it as far from shore as he could. A mile or two out, the device might detonate causing relatively little harm-the fog and general gloom had kept most boaters home.

Needing first to untie the heavy ropes tethering the yacht to the dock, he charged through the cabin door and onto the deck at the stern, where he found himself staring into the barrel of a shotgun.

Time seemed to slow, adrenaline again shifting his senses and thinking into higher gears. He had anticipated myriad obstacles and plotted countermaneuvers. Still the sight of Glenny made him jump.

“Stop right there, Mr. Pulitzer. Hands up where I can see them.”

He raised both arms above his head. “Just listen for a second.”

“No, sir.” Squinting through the sights, she tightened her finger around the trigger.

“Just one second, please.”

“One second.” She eyed the pale sky. “Time’s up.”

“The man you know as Tom the Campodonicos’ nephew is actually a very bad bad guy.” Glenny’s finger didn’t move. “This boat currently has a bomb with a hundred pounds of plastic explosive, enough to take out the marina and everything within a quarter mile. It’s going to detonate in seven minutes. I have no way to turn it off, so I need to get it out of harm’s way.”

Glenny paused to reflect. “Bullshit. You’re a yacht thief.”

Glancing at the parking lot, Charlie sighed in relief. “Here’s the Secret Service. They’ll straighten this out.”

She turned to look and saw only a deserted marina. When she looked back, readying a curse, she found Bream’s Glock leveled at her by Charlie. She blanched.

“If I were the bad guy, you’d be in some trouble now,” he said.

She acknowledged this with a grunt. And fired the shotgun.

Having anticipated that she would, he dropped to the deck. Through a scupper, he saw the thick bowline split in two, freeing the yacht’s bow from the cleat on the dock.

Swinging the barrel toward the stern, Glenny said, “I saw Tom this morning passing my office two different times with Arab guys who kinda kept looking over their shoulders.” She blasted the stern line free, destroying the bulky metal cleat in the process. “You’d best shove off, shipmate.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said, barging into the wheelhouse.

He glanced at the LED he’d ripped from the washer. 04:58.

He inserted Steve’s key into the ignition, weighing the odds that this key, like the remote, was a dud. The engines roared, churning the surrounding water.

On the dock, Glenny shouted into her cell phone and waved Charlie on.

The yacht’s controls were similar to the Riva Aquarama’s, a good thing as Charlie would have thrust the throttle in the direction common sense dictated was reverse and accidentally sent the yacht into the parking lot. He managed to back away from the dock, clocking the wheel. Shifting into forward, he launched the yacht toward what he thought was the middle of the bay. The fog, essentially low-lying cloud banks, made it impossible to tell that he wasn’t simply hugging the coast. Or about to crash into it.

The twin-tiered, state-of-the-art navigational equipment was of no more use to him than it would be to a caveman, with the exception of the hot-pink ball compass, a novelty item held by a rubber suction cup to the windshield. If the compass was working, the boat was headed due west. Toward the center of the bay.

He stood at the wheel, using all of his weight to absorb blows from oncoming waves.

When the clock flashed 3:00, he had put more than a mile between him and the marina. Or far enough.

Now to get overboard with the life raft.

Lest the yacht continue smack into a commercial freighter, he cut the engines, plummeting the dusky vicinity into graveyard silence broken only by the slapping of the water and his own heavy breathing as he ran out onto the bow.

He slid to a stop and tore away the Velcro straps binding the bright red Zodiac raft to the inside of the railing. About ten feet long, it had a stern-mounted outboard motor that looked like it had plenty of zip.

The raft wouldn’t budge. A padlock at the end of a thick stern line fastened it to the yacht’s uppermost rail. Charlie looked on the back of the lock. No miniature keyhole. He might be able to cut the line with a knife or saw, however. And a couple of minutes.

He had 1:43.

He considered diving overboard and swimming away. Hypothermia beat disintegration.

Instead he held the barrel of the Glock two feet from the padlock. He shielded his face, and pulled the trigger. Either the sound or the shrapnel stabbed his eardrums; he couldn’t be sure which. Regardless, there was no longer any trace of the lock.

He heaved the Zodiac into the water. Trying not to think about the fifteen-foot drop, he straddled the rail. He glimpsed the LED blink from 1:00 to:59 as he leaped.

His weight and momentum torpedoed him into water that felt so cold it should have been ice.

He resurfaced to find the Zodiac drifting away, faster than he could swim. Ordinarily. Lungs shrieking for air, he reached the raft, perhaps seventy-five feet from the yacht, or a good thousand feet closer than he needed to be.