“I’m not wrong,” McGarvey said. “The real captain’s body was stuffed in an aluminum trunk and left in a hotel storage room.”
“I see.”
“I want the chopper gun crew to stand by to make sure Graham doesn’t jump ship.”
EIGHTEEN
The Apurto Devlán eased slowly into the middle lock leading to Lake Gatun fifteen minutes before one in the morning, slightly ahead of schedule. A second Panamax vessel, this one a cruise ship, was in the lock ahead of them and more than twenty-five feet higher and rising.
She was a Carnival ship, out of Miami, which gave Graham a particular pleasure. When he pressed the detonator code, not only would the Apurto Devlán go up in a ball of flame, completely destroying the Gatun locks, but the cruise ship would also be wiped out, killing Americans. Probably even more than died in the World Trade Center attacks.
“Engines Back All Slow,” Sanchez told al-Tashkiri.
“Back All Slow.” Al-Tashkiri acknowledged the order, just as he had been taught to do.
Ramati was starting to become agitated. Graham glanced over and slowly shook his head. His first officer acknowledged the warning with a nod. The ship would never leave this lock, and everyone aboard except for the Panamanian pilot knew it.
The ship’s engines responded to the order, and her forward momentum bled off as her bows approached the forward gate, and the stern mules took up the slack, keeping her centered.
“Stop All Engines,” Sanchez ordered softly.
“All Engines Stop,” al-Tahskiri responded. He was sweating, his face dripping, his khaki shirt soaked at the armpits and across the back.
The pilot looked at him, then went to the port wing to check their clearance aft.
“Get a hold of yourself,” Graham whispered urgently to al-Tashkiri.
When the pilot came back, he keyed his walkie-talkie. “Gatun Control, Apurto Devlán ready for number-two closure.” He held the walkie-talkie to his ear momentarily to hear the response then keyed the Talk button. “Roger,” he said. He looked pointedly at al-Tashkiri, and then Ramati. It was obvious he sensed that something was wrong.
From the moment they’d raised anchor and slowly made their way north up the seven-mile channel past docks, shipyards, and fueling stations, the pilot had been edgy. He’d not engaged in any conversation, other than to issue orders, and from time to time he gave them odd, searching looks.
“Are we in position, Mr. Sanchez?” Graham asked to distract the man. They only needed a few more minutes in case Gatun Control had something else to speak to Sanchez about.
“Yes,” the pilot said. “Mr. Sozansky, are you feeling well?”
It took a moment for al-Tashkiri to realize that the pilot was addressing him. He turned and nodded. “Yes, sir. Just fine.”
“Is this your first transit?”
Graham reached for his pistol.
“No, sir,” al-Tashkiri said. “I’ve been here before.”
Graham motioned for Ramati to move out of the line of fire.
The pilot pointed to the sweat stains on al-Tashkiri’s shirt. “You seem a little nervous to me.”
Graham’s hand tightened on the pistol in his pocket.
Al-Tashkiri choked out a strangled laugh. “Yes, sir. I’m always nervous. I’ve been this way since I was a little boy in … Poland.”
Sanchez shot a look at Graham as if to say it was the captain’s fault if a crewman was so nervous he was drenched in sweat at the helm. But then the massive steel gates began to close astern, and the pilot went again to the port wing to check clearances.
Graham snatched the ship’s phone from its cradle and called the engine room. “We’re done with the engines. It will happen very soon.”
“Insh’allah,” Hijazi said softly, and with great respect.
“Yes, God willing,” Graham told him. He hung up just as Sanchez came back.
The pilot laid his walkie-talkie on the shelf beneath the center windshield, took a thermos of coffee from his pack beside the helmsman, and poured a cup. He did not offer some to Graham or the others.
As soon as the gates behind them were closed, sealing off this lock, massive valves would be opened and water from Gatun Lake would rush into the chamber, rising the ship to the center level, more than fifty feet above the Caribbean, in about fifteen minutes.
At that point the lead gates would open, the cruise ship, which would be twenty-five feet higher, would be disconnected from the mules and would sail out into Gatun Lake, leaving the chamber to be filled for the Apurto Devlán. Before that happened Graham wanted to be off the ship and well enough away to trigger the explosives.
The timing was tight, but manageable. He would make it so. He smiled.
“Mr. Slavin, I’ve been thinking,” the pilot said.
Not for long, Graham thought. “Yes, Mr. Sanchez.”
“I don’t remember your cousin. But I’m sure that I remember the name: Grigoriy Slavin.”
“I’m flattered,” Graham said. “There must be thousands of vessels through here each year.”
“More than fourteen thousand,” Sanchez said. He was looking at Graham over the rim of his coffee mug. “A figure that as a Panamax master you should know.”
Graham glanced behind him through the port windows. They were slowly rising. The valves had been opened. He smiled. “I’ve never been one for someone else’s exact numbers,” he said.
The pilot shook his head. “You’re not Grigoriy Slavin,” he said. “You’re an imposter.”
“Yes, I am,” Graham said. He took out his pistol, and before Sanchez could move or even speak, shot the man in the middle of the forehead, blood splashing across the port radar set.
The pilot’s head was flung backwards. He dropped his cup, which shattered on the steel deck, and his body bounced against the forward bulkhead as he fell on his side, dead.
Al-Tashkiri closed his eyes and began to rapidly mutter something. Graham figured he was praying, preparing his soul for Paradise.
Ramati, on the other hand, was highly animated, flinging his arms outstretched as if he simply could not contain himself. Graham had to briefly wonder if it had been like this for the crazy bastards in the last minutes of the flights that hit the World Trade Center.
Graham switched aim and fired at Ramati, the shot catching his number two in the middle of the chest.
Ramati staggered backwards, but he was still alive. He desperately clawed for his pistol in his pocket, when Graham fired again, hitting him in the right eye, the back of his skull disintegrating.
Graham turned and fired almost at point-blank range into the side of al-Tashkiri’s head as the kid opened his eyes and started to step away.
For several long seconds Graham listened to the sudden silence, as the Apurto Devlán continued to rise. But then he got his cell phone and hit a speed-dial button. When the call went through to the operative standing by on the Nueva Cruz, it was answered on the first ring.
“Sí.”
“¡Ahora!” Graham said. Now! “¡Ahora!”
“Sí,” the man responded, and the connection was broken. Within minutes a small speedboat would be launched from the mother ship and come ashore.
Graham pocketed his cell phone and pistol, and went to the port wing as the ship continued to rise to the level of the mule tracks. The only people around were the canal operators in the control room, the mule drivers, and the canal workers who handled the lines.