Chapter Seventeen
Tom Bower kept his eyes fixed on the graphical display screen in front of him.
It utilized the same heads-up display technology used by pilots on fighter jets, only in this case, it was projecting a live feed from high definition video cameras mounted at the front of the ghost ship. His right hand gripped a joystick. He was concentrating hard, making tiny adjustments, threading the ship through a small flotilla of sailing yachts at their anchorage.
He’d broken past the coast guard search and rescue vessel, but two jet skis had given chase. He was in the process of dragging them through the rougher waters near the coastline in an attempt to force them to slow down or get knocked off.
Tom glanced at the GPS display map. They were heading south along the Italian coast, moving at nearly fifty knots, swerving in and out of an array of jagged coastal rocks.
He made a quick shift with his hand, darted between a narrow tidal constriction, between a series of thirty-foot-high sea stacks and the point at the edge of the Riomaggiore harbor.
His bow wave ripped against the rocks, sending a tidal-wave-like response as it ebbed. The two jet skis responded badly. One tried to ride the wave, but pulled back too hard, and ended landing on his back in the water, while the other one attempted to make a sudden ninety degree turn, abandon the chase, and backtrack around the sea stacks.
Tom came out the opposite side and into the open sea.
He increased the throttle to full. Released from its earthly restraints, the ghost ship picked up speed, racing ahead at nearly seventy-five knots.
Tom glanced at the rear-view camera display.
One down and one lagging too far behind to catch him now that he was in the open water.
Then he swore, because the police rescue helicopter had joined the pursuit.
He kept the ghost ship on a southerly route.
Using his left hand, he expanded the GPS display using a reverse pinch grip, until the map showed the next fifty miles of coastal regions.
His eyes scanned the area, searching for somewhere to take refuge from the now permanent set of eyes, tracking them like a bird of prey, on board the police helicopter.
He considered the French Island of Corsica. An Italian police helicopter chasing an unidentified boat might at the very least prove a diplomatic problem for them, but was unlikely to last long enough to aid him at all. Besides, the island was roughly fifty miles away, across open ocean. It would be too easy for the pilot to notify the French coast guard and possibly get their assistance.
No, he needed somewhere closer.
He turned his attention to the Tuscan Archipelago, a series of seven islands that followed the coast of Italy belonging to the Province of Livorno. Capraia was the closest, but Elba and Giglio were bigger, allowing more likelihood of a sea cave, or grotto in which he might take refuge.
But he dismissed them as being too far out to be feasible. It still meant traveling along the open ocean. Even if it worked on the outward journey, it would never work for the return trip. No. They needed to stay along the Italian Riviera.
What he needed was something nearby. Something he could use to hide just long enough to make the transformation.
His eyes locked onto Grotta dell'Arpaia, on the coast of Port Venere.
Tom clicked the location, bringing up information about the region.
The coastal town of Port Venere was famous for its sea caves. Grotta dell'Arpaia, being its largest and most famous, was named after Lord George Byron, a poet who swam out to it to meet a girl in secret, and said to be the inspiration of much of his poetry work. Unfortunately, the large grotto had long since collapsed.
Nearby, the region included several sea caves, including Azzurra and Blue Cave, Tinetto — the cavity of the Doves and the wall of Tino, the shoal of Dante and Small and Big Creeks.
He zoomed in.
Azzurra was massive, and during the day often had several tourist boats.
It was perfect.
Tom steered a direct course for the sea cave.
Behind him, and still dressed in a black skivvy, Genevieve came up. She was lithe, and muscular. She had short brown hair, blue eyes, and a grin that told him they were in trouble. She’d joined Sam Reilly’s team several years ago now, as somewhat of a mystery. A woman of mixed talents, she could cook and kill in equally admirable proportions. Since then, they had discovered that she had once been an assassin working for her father, who headed the Russian mafia. A deadly history, which Tom had tried to forget in the past three years the two of them had been dating.
She was followed by a man in a police uniform.
“Tom, we have a problem back here.”
Tom glanced at her, his eyes focused on the task at hand, navigating around an upcoming fleet of small fishing boats. His eyes darted toward the police helicopter hovering above. “We have a problem up here, too. What’s wrong?”
“It appears I grabbed the wrong man…”
“What?”
“This is Mr. Gabriele Valentino, the Chief of Police for La Spezia.”
Tom met the man’s hardened stare. “Tom Bower. My apologies, sir. We can explain everything, but right now, we’re in a bit of a pickle. So, I’m afraid, you’re just going to have to sit tight.”
The police chief arced up. “Wait just a minute…”
“I understand you’re rightfully pissed off. Unfortunately, you’ve just interrupted an international project that’s been in the pipeline for nearly a year.”
“No, I don’t think you understand me…” the police chief tried to stand up, his gesture threatening, and his voice hard.
Genevieve gave his wrist a subtle twist, and he gave a sharp welp.
Tom said, “Be nice, Genevieve. It’s not this man’s fault that you interrupted his investigation by accidentally taking the wrong man.” He turned to meet the chief’s eye. “Sorry, sir. What were you saying?”
The police chief raised his voice, glanced at Genevieve, and then carefully lowered it again. “I was saying, I’m the chief of police for La Spezia, my brother is the mayor, and my uncle is a senator…”
Tom interrupted him. “And this project was signed off by your president, so I’m afraid you’re just going to have to be a little patient a while longer.”
The chief caught his eye. “You’re lying.”
“Hey, we’re the good guys…”
“I don’t believe you! You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I’ll be happy to show you some written documents to prove it shortly. But, as you can tell, we’re in a bit of trouble. If you’d like, you’re welcome to take a seat and watch the show… or, I can leave you in the back, under Genevieve’s guard.”
The police chief glanced at her, his eyes darting back to Tom. “Ah, no thank you. I think I’ll wait here with you.”
“Very good.”
Ten minutes later, Tom slowed the engine and the ghost ship dropped off the aquaplane and pulled into the protective cover of the Azzurra sea cave.
Overhead, the police helicopter hovered, taking up a waiting position.
Inside the cave were three other tourist ships.
Tom brought the ship to a complete stop. He opened a digital control panel and switched off a series of locking mechanisms.
The police chief asked, “What is this?”
Tom grinned. “A little bit of subterfuge.”
He pressed the release button and immediately the hydraulic arms lifted the entire, rusty top deck off the ghost ship. It was nothing more than a façade of rust, draped over a frame of particle board. The canopy dropped overboard, sinking to the seabed below.
The police chief met his eye, accusingly.
Tom said, “What? I promise we’ll be back to pick that up in a few days.”