The panga raced upriver. Quickly Ammon ducked into a narrow channel that cut around an island. The government boat followed, still gaining. As the larger craft neared, Paul focused on the bow cannon. In seconds they’d be within its accurate range. He envisioned deadly fifty-caliber shells shredding the fragile skiff, destroying everything and everyone aboard. At that moment he detected a familiar stench. Ammon had driven them straight into an algal bloom! Their speed slowed dramatically, and Paul’s heart sank. The supercharged Evinrude motor screamed as it fought through the thick, stinking muck. He reached for Ava and took her hand. Paul struggled to find the words to apologize, to show his feelings. If he hadn’t wanted to see her again, she’d never be in this mess. It was so stupid. He should have known about Simon. How could he have missed it? Instead, he’d made a horrific botch of things. Now he’d be responsible for Ava’s death as well as the deaths of two innocent kids. He looked up at her. Voice cracking with shame, he said, “I’m so sorry.”
Ava, however, was smiling. Confused, Paul followed her gaze astern, where he saw Ammon beaming in triumph. The patrol boat was fading into the distance. Rushing to follow them through the swampy shallows, the pursuer had run aground.
There was not a moment to lose. Paul knelt on the deck, eased open Sefu’s shirt, and attempted to check his vitals. Over the engine’s roar, Paul couldn’t hear a heartbeat. He felt for a pulse, but his own still pounded too strongly. Finally, he put his cheek to Sefu’s lips, forcing himself to remain perfectly still. He waited.
After what seemed a lifetime, Paul felt a shallow exhale. Despite the gushing blood and the sucking wound, Sefu’s chest slowly expanded and contracted.
“He’s alive!” Paul yelled. Ammon’s head shot up. His face burst into a hopeful smile. Ava began to sob. “Get us to a doctor,” Paul commanded. He no longer cared about the jars. He didn’t care if he went to jail, or worse. He would not let this boy die.
As the sun set, they regained the main channel, and Ammon opened the throttle wide. Squinting in the dim light, Paul dug through the pilgrims’ first-aid kit, found some gauze bandages, and tried to stanch Sefu’s wounds. He was losing blood much too rapidly.
“Is the satphone charged?” he asked. Ava said yes, but reminded him that DeMaj might be monitoring the number.
“I don’t give a damn. Without proper care, he’ll be dead in two hours, maybe sooner.”
He handed the phone to Ammon. “Call ahead to the next town. Make sure they have a decent hospital. Tell them to send an ambulance, paramedics, and whatever else they have to meet us on the docks. Tell them money is no object.”
Ava shot Paul a questioning look. In response, he grabbed his wallet, flipped it open, and withdrew a handful of elite credit cards.
“Take them all. Simon won’t have frozen my accounts. He’d hope to track us by our purchases. Just spend whatever it takes.”
Ammon locked eyes with Paul. For a moment, neither moved or spoke. Something profound passed between them. Then Ammon nodded. He took the credit cards and began dialing.
Twenty minutes later, they reached the docks of Mutubis. Two nondescript vans awaited them. Neither was an ambulance, and Ava didn’t see any paramedics, but the tough-looking men driving the vans had experience transporting wounded passengers. Ammon gave instructions and displayed the credit cards, proving this wasn’t a charity case. The drivers didn’t work risky jobs for free. As they loaded Sefu onto the gurney, he briefly regained consciousness. He coughed blood, gagged, and reached out blindly. Paul caught his hand and held it steady.
“Hey, kid,” said Paul, “you’ll be fine. We told the doctors you’d give them free Playboy subscriptions.”
Sefu tried to laugh. Instead, a hideous wheeze escaped his chest.
“Here,” Paul said, handing the teen a filthy baseball cap, “take this for luck. It’s just a loan, okay? I want it back in a few days, when you’re feeling better.”
Sefu smiled and nodded. The driver shut the van’s doors and departed for the hospital.
The travelers watched the van until it faded out of sight. Ammon returned the satphone.
Ava turned to Ammon. “What’s your plan?” she said.
“Go south and hide the boat. Then sneak back to the hospital.”
He helped Paul transfer the cargo and luggage from the boat to the remaining van. As they slid the twin canisters inside, Paul tried to pass Ammon a wad of banknotes, but the young Egyptian refused. Instead he patted his pocket, which held the credit cards. “I will repay,” he vowed solemnly. He and Paul shook hands.
Ammon nodded respectfully to Ava, who rushed forward and kissed his cheek, causing him to blush a rich scarlet. The man watching from the van smiled in amusement. Glaring at him, Ammon retreated to his boat and disengaged it from the pier. With a wave, he started the engine and motored south.
As the Egyptian sun slipped below the horizon, Paul and Ava climbed into the second van and hid themselves under a thick blanket while the driver piled a load of heavy woven carpets atop the canisters. Its foreign passengers and cargo thus concealed, the van began the sixty-five-kilometer trek to Alexandria.
Chapter 9
Sultan Mehmed II sat in his tent, contemplating strategy. His method was to think three or four moves ahead of his adversary, anticipating and then neutralizing any foreseeable response. In just seven days, he’d led his army into the heart of Wallachia. Despite the enemy’s unconventional maneuvers, guerrilla warfare, and scorched-earth tactics, only the walled city of Bucharest and the Snagov Fortress remained between Mehmed and the capital.
It had been a difficult, costly campaign. Destroyed bridges, traps, concealed pits, and other obstacles impeded the Turks’ progress. Most peasants had evacuated to the mountains, taking along their invaluable harvests and livestock. As a consequence, the Turkish army suffered from fatigue, paranoia, and starvation. The coming days promised to be worse. Reconnaissance by trusted scouts indicated that the countryside offered no man or any significant animal, and nothing to eat or drink.
A messenger appeared at Mehmed’s door. Once admitted by the bodyguards, he reported that the Ottoman navy had taken the Bulgarian ports of Brăila and Chilia, denying the enemy any hope of reinforcement by sea. “So,” the sultan thought, “we can attack at dawn.”
Mehmed ordered his guards to bring in a captured Wallachian soldier.
“Tell me your name,” the sultan demanded.
The Christian said nothing. A guard slapped the prisoner’s face with a heavy gauntlet, drawing blood, but the captive stayed mute.
Mehmed said, “This conflict is pointless. Lead me to your master and present my terms. He will surrender with honor, convert to Islam, and be named a baron in my empire. Every warrior who lays down arms and converts will be spared. For your service, you will have three thousand coins and my gratitude.”
There was no response.
The sultan continued.
“Otherwise, my jailers will torture you to death. They are quite practiced in the art.”
The warrior met the sultan’s gaze. By way of reply, he spat. The guards fell upon the Christian with a flurry of blows, knocking him to the ground and fracturing bones.
“This fool prefers torture and death to mercy and wealth. Execute him.”
Mehmed’s guards dragged away the defiant Wallachian. Outwardly, the sultan acted as though such defiance was inconsequential. Secretly, he was impressed by the infidel’s resolve. “With a division of such soldiers,” he thought, “I could conquer the world.”