“Now what?”
“The canal,” Paul said. “We’ll jump.”
They climbed onto the tiles again, but this time they went down the slope. Gamay had the balance of a mountain goat, but Paul felt that his height was now a hindrance. He found it hard to keep low enough not to have a sensation of falling forward.
He began sliding down on his backside. Gamay did the same and they eased toward the edge. They were four stories up with an eight-foot gap to cover.
Paul said, “That’s farther down than I thought.”
“I don’t think we have a choice,” Gamay said.
“Maybe they’ll be afraid to follow.”
Behind them, the men were climbing onto the tiles. “Guess not. You first.”
Gamay tossed the painting down. It landed on the stone path beside the canal.
“Give us the painting,” one of the pursuers shouted. “It’s all we want.”
“Now he tells us,” Gamay said.
“Ready?” Paul asked.
She nodded.
“Go.”
Gamay used her legs to maximum advantage, crouching and springing forward. She flew, with arms windmilling, cleared the wall at the edge of the canal by several feet and plunged into the dark water.
Paul followed. Launching himself and landing beside her.
They surfaced seconds apart. The water was frigid, but it felt marvelous. They swam to the wall, where Paul gave Gamay a boost out onto the path and climbed out himself. She’d just put her hand on the frame of the painting when the first of three splashes landed in the canal behind them.
“These guys don’t know when to quit,” Gamay said.
“Neither do we.”
With the men swimming toward them, Paul and Gamay took off running. They were blocked by another sinister-looking pair at the end of the lane.
“Trapped again.”
A small outboard-powered boat sat tied up on the canal. It was that or nothing.
Paul jumped in, nearly capsizing the small boat. Gamay hopped in and untied the rope. “Go!”
Paul yanked the starter rope and the motor came to life, spewing forth a cloud of blue smoke. He twisted the throttle and more fumes poured from the old outboard, but the propeller dug into the water and the narrow little boat sped off.
Paul kept his eyes forward, careful not to hit any of the dozens of boats and barges tied up at the water’s edge. He’d just begun to feel safe when another small boat raced out of the fog behind them and began to close the gap.
57
“Go faster!” Gamay shouted.
The outboard motor was open full-throttle, but the boat was not breaking any speed records.
Paul tried letting off the gas, twisting the throttle to full again in hopes that they would pick up some more speed. He found the choke and pulled it open halfway. It was a cold, damp morning and he thought that might help. But the motor sputtered instead.
“That’s not faster,” Gamay pointed out.
“I don’t think this boat does faster,” Paul said. He jammed the choke shut once again and focused on weaving around impediments and boats tied to either side of the canal like an obstacle course.
The small boat following them was doing the same and catching up in the process. Around a sweeping right-hand turn, the bow of the chase boat banged the back corner of Paul and Gamay’s boat. The bump sent them surging forward and they scraped the stone wall.
As the river straightened, the other boat pulled up beside them. One of the men raised a knife and was about to fling it at Paul when Gamay swung an oar she’d found and clubbed the attacker. She caught him across the side of the head and he went over and into the water, but a second man — a man she recognized as Scorpion — grabbed the end of the oar and yanked it toward him.
Gamay was almost pulled into the other boat. She let go and fell back as Scorpion flung the oar aside.
The boats separated once again and she saw him ready his knife. “Closer,” he yelled to his compatriot.
“Make it hard on them,” she shouted to Paul. “Drive this thing like it’s rush hour.”
Paul took her advice and the two boats came together twice, banging their metal sides each time and bouncing off of each other. An oncoming barge forced them to separate again and they spread out to either side of the channel. But once they’d passed it, their pursuers came veering toward them once more.
This time, the boats hit and locked together awkwardly. The larger and faster boat won the battle for control and forced Paul and Gamay’s smaller boat toward the wall of the canal. They hit the wall and scraped along it, sending out a shower of sparks.
As they came off the wall, Scorpion lunged across the transom and seized the painting at Gamay’s feet. She grabbed the edge of the frame and held on, but the man reared back and the old wooden frame gave way.
Gamay was left holding a splintered piece of red oak while Scorpion fell back in his boat with the rest of the painting. His partner immediately angled their boat back out toward the center of the canal and accelerated.
“He’s got it!” Gamay yelled.
The roles reversed for a moment and Paul turned as sharply as he dared. The boats crashed together once more, but they didn’t link up and the impact knocked Paul’s hand from the grip of the throttle.
By the time he’d grabbed it again, the small outboard was sputtering. He twisted it open, but all that did was flood the motor with fuel, killing it. The boat’s pace slackened with a terrible sinking sensation.
Paul grabbed the starter cord and yanked on it with great ferocity.
“Hurry!” Gamay shouted.
The other boat was speeding off. Paul jerked the starter cord a second time and then a third. The outboard sputtered to life and they picked up speed again, but the other boat was far ahead and leaving them behind. They soon lost it in the mist.
“Can you see them?” Paul asked.
“No,” Gamay replied, straining to look through the fog.
A few minutes later, they came upon the boat. It was empty and abandoned, floating beside the right bank of the river.
“They’re gone,” Paul said, stating the obvious. “We’ve lost them.”
Gamay swore under her breath and then looked at Paul. “We need to call the police and the paramedics and send them to the museum.”
“And have them check on Madame Duchene as well,” Paul said.
He guided the small boat ahead until they found a flight of stairs and a landing by the canal’s edge. They got out together and ran to the first open business they could find. Gamay was soon on the phone and the police were on their way.
There was nothing they could do now but wait.
58
Tariq Shakir sat in the darkened control room, waiting for news. There were no radio reports, no buzzing walkie-talkies, only the hardwired phone and the data line that ran the length of the pipeline tunnel back to the Osiris hydroelectric plant. Through these wires came the news that his plan was coming to fruition.
Emergency meetings were being called in Libya. Shakir’s man, the opposition leader, was getting favorable press. Money had bought that, but sentiment was turning against the existing government. And that was priceless. Riots were going on in every city. The leaders continued promising more water, but the thrum of the pumps in Shakir’s subterranean cavern told him that would never happen. He doubted the existing government would last another twenty-four hours.
Meanwhile, across the Mediterranean, Alberto Piola was back in Rome, holding middle-of-the-night meetings and rallying Italian politicians to his side. He reported that they were ready to acknowledge the new government in Libya the instant it became official and to pledge their support for an Egyptian initiative of stabilization and assistance. The French would follow and both the Algerian and Libyan coups would be well on their way to legitimacy.