Canister after canister of C-4 instantly volatilized into heat, gas, and pressure waves. The series of explosions came so quickly that it seemed one ever-increasing roar.
No ship could contain that incandescent fury. Cataracts of flame poured out of hatchways and ventilator shafts. The deck and upper works were pulverized in the searing fireball. Fields of flame segmented the hull, slicing it apart at the seams. The remains of the Melina formed a small black shape at the base of an enormous pillar of fire.
The tremendous expanding pressure wave flung the Superbo high in the air. Before Carter could think to jump clear, he was clear, flying one way while the boat went in a different direction.
A giant invisible hand slam-dunked Carter into the sea, stuffing him down, down, down.
The water changed color as he dropped into the depths, going from yellow-green, to dark green, to greenish black. Currents sported with him, buffeting, flinging him this way and that.
The water vibrated with muted booming as the explosions kept coming.
Carter was dazed, confused. Which way was up?
Silver bubbles streamed past him, rising. They issued from his nose and mouth. He breathed water. He was drowning!
He followed the bubbles, using powerful kicks and strokes. The chill uniform blackness surrounding him seemed to have no end. After a timeless interval it lightened, going through the color gradient in reverse, from black to green to yellow-green.
His head finally broke the surface. He coughed, choking. Brackish water spewed from mouth and nostrils, painful, burning.
Day had become night. A pall of black smoke blotted the sky, dimmed the sun. Red firelight underlit the clouds, bloodied the waters. Debris rained down from above.
What remained of the Melina's hull split in two. Fireworks spurted from the fast-sinking twin hulks. Oil leaked from the wreck like black blood, spreading over the troubled waters.
As the halves went down, a whirlpool formed. Suction tugged at Carter, gently at first, then greedily, demanding.
He struck out, swimming away from the widening vortex, taking care not to swallow any oil.
Isolated patches of oil burned, quickly linking up in a fiery blanket. Heat tingled on Carter's flesh. The water grew warmer, much warmer.
The flaming ring was hard on his heels, just short of overtaking him. He swam submerged.
When he came up to breathe, flames and choking smoke surrounded him. He sucked a gasping breath, went under, and swam until he thought his lungs would burst. Better that, he thought, than to have them seared by oil fire.
When he finally surfaced, he was beyond the flames and the swirling vortex. Treading water, he watched the Melina's remains sink out of sight. Hissing steam clouds rose to join the smoke.
Anxiety struck him. He grabbed his right arm, relieved to find Hugo's comforting steel securely nestled in place. The blade was an old friend and he would have hated to lose it.
It was funny how things worked out, Carter mused. The Melina met her fate not far from the bustling port of Jaffa. Jaffa — the ancient city was known as Joppa in biblical times — was where the original Jonah had set sail on the ill-fated voyage that landed him in the belly of the whale.
Captain Farmingdale might have appreciated the irony. Then again, he might not.
Carter did.
The shore seemed a long way off. Carter swam toward it. He hadn't gone very far when an Israeli patrol boat fished him out of the sea.
Five
On the night before the Melina incident, Avram Maltz, deputy assistant to the Minister of Maritime Trade, tried to take it on the lam.
Maltz skulked in the shadows of the underground parking garage beneath a Tel Aviv luxury high-rise apartment complex. Fourteen floors above, his wife of twenty-one years slept and snored, oblivious of the fact that her husband was flying the coop.
And good riddance! Maltz thought. Abandoning bovine Esther was the only good to come out of this unholy mess.
He traveled light. Aside from the clothes on his back, he carried only his passport, papers, and an attaché case crammed with cash.
He was getting out while he still could. He must have been insane to get in as deep as he had. Disgrace, utter ruin would have been better. His «associates» dealt out murder as casually as a traffic cop hands out citations.
Even Lemniak was afraid. Lemniak, with his international connections and his quartet of big, tough, well-armed bodyguards. That was the clincher for Maltz. If a big shot like Lemniak was trying to wriggle out and cut a private deal to save his own neck — and he was — then what chance did he, Maltz, have?
Less than none, but he didn't know that yet.
The deserted parking garage was unsettling, eerie at the midnight hour. Its elderly attendant was cozily installed in a subbasement room, sleeping on the job, as usual. Maltz had passed him earlier when he'd tiptoed down to the garage.
Maltz waited on the bottom landing of the stairs, peeking through the slightly ajar fire door. Looking down the ranks of parked cars, he saw no one. That was comforting, since he was sure he'd been followed for the last few days.
He wanted to be absolutely positive he was alone, but he couldn't wait forever. He had a plane to catch, a flight to New York City. When he arrived safely at his destination, he'd contact the authorities and tip them off.
Maltz made his break. He darted out the door, hustling down the aisles to his car.
Banks of overhead fluorescent lights hummed, flickered. From somewhere came the distant sound of machinery. At the garage's far end lay its exit, a broad archway opening onto a ramp rising to street level. Through it poured the nighttime sounds of the restless city.
His car was parked in the middle of the garage. Maltz was fumbling with his keys when a whistle shrilled.
He started guiltily, looking up. The whistle came from the street, but he saw no one.
Something flew into the garage.
Maltz froze, then thawed. The wind must have blown a child's kite down from the street. Only — there was no wind. No kite, either.
It was a bird, its wings flapping, a huge bird the likes of which he'd never seen. Flying straight for him, with a four-foot wingspan, gold and brown and tan speckled body, wickedly curved beak and outstretched talons.
A bird of prey. Swift, unerring, with deadly intent.
"Shoo! Shoo!" Maltz didn't want to betray his presence by shouting, but he was afraid. Terrified. Especially since the big bird closed in on a collision course.
He threw up his arms, shielding his face with the attaché case, then screamed as razor-sharp talons ripped his hands.
The bird hovered, flew away, dipped a wing to wheel around a concrete support post, then came back for another pass.
Maltz flailed at it, the hovering bird easily avoiding his clumsy swings. The attaché case cracked against a car's fender and popped open, spilling stacks of bills all over the floor.
The bird went for his head, ripping, tearing. Each talon was like a four-inch barbed fishhook rending his flesh. Half-blinded by blood, fear, and pain, Maltz covered his face with his hands.
The peregrine's talons tore open Maltz's soft throat.
Holding his neck, trying to stem the gush of blood, sobbing, gurgling, Maltz stumbled down the aisle, kicking wads of currency, careening off cars, dying.
Each beat of his furiously pounding heart sent fresh gouts of blood pulsing from his savaged throat, his rended veins and arteries. He gagged, spat, toppled, sprawled, convulsed.
A high-pitched whistle again sounded. Responding to its master's call, the peregrine ended its attack, wheeled. A few flaps of its powerful wings and it glided through the arched exit, into the street, and out of sight.