Authorities believe the catamaran’s left engine exploded shortly after the vessel departed Valletta at 1820 GMT, with 600 souls aboard. Helicopters and rescue boats arrived on the scene within 30 minutes. Throughout the stormy night, emergency workers dumped water on the burning ship and rushed the injured to nearby hospitals. Among the survivors, “there were numerous injuries, including fractures and lacerations,” fire department spokesman Mario Testa told reporters. “There were a couple of people with amputations, legs and arms.” At least 10 victims were taken to Malta University Hospital, a surgeon there stated. Dr. Vella told a packed news conference that investigators suspect foul play and may officially classify the incident as an act of terrorism.
Throughout the night, recovery teams removed bodies from the restless sea, dark now save for the occasional blue flash of emergency lights. Malta’s newly elected prime minister, Joseph Muscat, cut short his holiday to supervise rescue efforts. Speaking at the airport, he said: “Our government will make every effort to support the families at this difficult moment as they receive news of the tragedy.”
Injured officer E. De Bono, who helped several passengers escape the sinking vessel, said it simply “exploded laterally. We heard a huge crash, and we saw a lot of smoke.” An American survivor reported that the ferry was going at a “pretty good clip” when he heard an “enormous crashing sound” and “felt a sharp jolt. Everybody then began running to grab life jackets.” A British passenger told the BBC: “The back end of the vessel opened like a sardine can.”
A spokesperson for Virtu, which operates the Maltese ferry to Italy, said the explosion ripped out the hull steel and windows all the way along the ship’s length.
No details of the deceased passengers’ nationalities or identities have been released. A local emergency service told the BBC that many children were among the victims.
The Australian-built catamaran entered service in 2005 and was used for short trips across the Mediterranean, according to marine navigation expert Captain S. A. Nelson. He added that Virtu has an excellent safety record. All ferry service remains suspended to and from Malta pending completion of the investigation.
Gabe’s skin broke out in a cold sweat. Overwhelming nausea stirred within him. Finally able to move, he bolted from the chair, staggered to Jess’s bathroom, and vomited into the toilet. Then he rested, panting, with his forehead against the cool ceramic. Gabe felt his larynx constrict. Tears stung his eyes. He wanted to howl in anguish, but just a moan escaped his trembling lips. In shock, Gabe only gradually became aware of the telephone’s ring.
Sheik Ahmed was reading a newspaper account of the bombing. Paul and Ava were listed as “missing, presumed dead.” On one level, Ahmed was satisfied: He felt proud to have accomplished an important, difficult mission. On an instinctual level, though, he worried. He’d never favored this method of killing. Not for moral reasons — he had no scruples about sacrificing so-called innocent bystanders to advance his purpose. Rather, Ahmed disliked the technique’s imprecision. He’d prefer to have the Americans’ corpses in his trunk. Ahmed massaged his right arm as he visualized presenting the bodies to the master as trophies and as proof of the deed. Instead, he must rely on newspapers and television — notorious fabulists — for confirmation. Ahmed had loyal men watching every hospital. He’d bribed the petty bureaucrats, nurses, and clerks. By morning they’d provide a complete list of the injured. If either American had survived the shipwreck, the sheik would be happy to finish the job in person.
Paul was playing second base for the Red Sox. Jeter was at bat. He looked to his manager for a sign. Would he bunt? Something strange was afoot. Fans began singing a song Paul remembered from Casablanca, the one Victor Laszlo requests. The pitcher threw Jeter a hard slider. He ripped it into the gap. Then Paul was back in the water. Ava was sinking into darkness. He lunged but he couldn’t reach her hand. Struggling toward her, his legs seemed paralyzed. Then he noticed Ava’s eyes. They flipped open: lifeless.
“No!”
Paul woke in a clean, comfortable room. Its walls were decorated with bright Japanese prints, a dozen Technicolor waterfalls. Sunshine glowed through a window. He guessed it was about noon. Gradually, Paul remembered. Simon. He checked for his knife, but it was gone. Reaching to his chest, he felt Garagallo’s amulet under his shirt. At least they’d missed that. Paul tried to stand, but his head swam. He wondered if he was still deaf. As an experiment, he mumbled, “J’ai mal partout,” and was relieved when he could hear it. He touched his scalp and found that his hair was shaved down to a few centimeters. Paul’s face contorted with anger. What had Simon done? Confined him in a mental institution?
He wasn’t restrained, so Paul decided to escape. He found his wallet in the nightstand drawer. His boots were drying on a chair by the door. Quietly, he slid off the bed. Standing, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His legs felt sturdy, but when he took a step he grew dizzy. Fighting to stay balanced, Paul shut his eyes, then inhaled and exhaled. The spell passed.
He padded across the room and tried the door. Unlocked. This must be a nice sanitarium, Paul reasoned, not a place for criminals. That would make things easier. He grabbed his boots, opened the door, exited the room, and crept down the hall. He should find inconspicuous clothes. No — steal an orderly’s uniform…
A door opened. Paul flattened himself against the wall, searching for a place to hide, but it was too late. Two men entered the hallway. The first wore a dirt-stained coverall and carried a sawed-off shotgun. The second was immaculate in a tropical-weight, double-breasted pinstripe. Paul recognized the man’s handmade shoes. He turned to face his adversary, and when their eyes met, Simon smiled.
Paul’s hands clenched into fists as he started toward his former employer, eager to repay him, in full, for his crimes. At the last second, a familiar voice begged Paul to stop. He turned toward the speaker. To Paul’s amazement, it was Ammon. The teenage smuggler stood between Sinan and Nick. Paul froze, baffled. His friends hurriedly told him that Simon wasn’t the real enemy. Sheik Ahmed had betrayed him too. Sensing that his old teammate wasn’t convinced, Nick explained, “Look, DeMaj just saved your life. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
Paul shook his head. “Even if you’re right, Nick, he ordered those guards to kill seven people. Some were just children. He’s a murderer.”
Finally, Simon spoke. “Paul, I understand what you must be feeling. I know why you’re angry, but think carefully. What exactly did you see that night in the desert?”
“You yelled and the gunmen fired on those poor people.”
“Correct,” Simon agreed. “But what did I yell?”
Paul searched his memory “I don’t know,” he admitted. “You spoke Arabic.”
DeMaj nodded. “Yes. In Arabic, I demanded that the seven men leave my camp.” Recalling that moment, a somber expression crossed his face. “I thought they planned to steal the jars. I realize now they were only trying to protect them.”
He swallowed, then continued, “They refused, and I became irate. I yelled. I threatened to have them arrested and… worse.” A note of sorrow entered his voice. “I made several threats, but I swear on my mother’s grave that I never gave the order to fire. When the guards started shooting, I was as surprised as you were.”