“Is he on the plane?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” Kurt said. “He’s probably sitting in the first-class lounge at Doha by now. Looking over the menu from Citronelle and getting hungrier by the minute.”
She tilted her head like a child or cocker spaniel might. “It could be me,” she said. “But you don’t make a lot of sense.”
“I’ll be more clear,” he promised. “We’re not jumping out of this plane, we’re taking it over. We’re going to force our way into the cockpit, order the pilots to fly us somewhere safe and make a dinner reservation under the name Zavala at a place called Citronelle as soon as we touch down.”
“Can you fly it?”
“Not really.”
“So we make them fly it,” she said, smiling, “like we’re the hijackers.”
“Exactly.”
She looked toward the front of the plane. “I didn’t see any kind of armored door,” she said. “Just a ladder. Breaking in should be easy.”
“The trouble comes on the other side,” Kurt said. “We’re at high altitude. The plane is pressurized, and that cockpit’s draped in acres of glass. A struggle and an errant shot through one of the panes and we end up with rapid decompression.”
“Which is?”
“A controlled outward explosion,” Kurt said. “Basically, a giant sucking sound that ends with us flying out through the shattered window and free-falling toward the ocean for approximately ten minutes. Which will seem rather pleasant when compared to the sudden stop at the bottom.”
“Don’t want to do that,” she said.
“Neither do I,” he replied. “If we’re going to take over the plane without a struggle, we need to upgrade our weapon status.”
With Leilani trailing him, he walked toward the cargo pallets, hoping to find something more lethal.
As he dug into the first pallet, the high-pitched whine of the engines slowed and dropped an octave or two. The odd, slightly weightless feeling of an aircraft nosing over from cruise to descent came next. It was far more pronounced than on your average airliner.
“We’re descending,” Leilani said.
“Must be getting close,” Kurt said. “We’d better hurry.”
CHAPTER 34
THE FLOATING ISLAND OF AQUA-TERRA WAS UNDER NEW management. As Zarrina gave orders on the bridge, even Otero and Matson were feeling the heat.
Many decks below, Paul Trout walked the confines of Marchetti’s five-star brig, taking inventory of the surroundings. It came with floor-to-ceiling windows, soft recessed lighting and comfortable pillow-top mattresses. It even had a massage chair and a juice dispenser.
“A juice dispenser,” Paul said incredulously.
“Good idea,” Marchetti said, calling to him from the massage chair. “I’ll take a guava-pineapple while you’re up.”
Paul looked over at their host. He was arching his back like a cat rubbing on the furniture as the chair’s shiatsu tumblers moved up and down his spine.
“Oh, that feels good,” he mumbled. “Yeah, right there.”
On the one hand, it struck Paul as the height of absurdity; on the other hand, he couldn’t wait for Marchetti to get done so he could have a turn. Fighting the fire had knotted up his back something fierce.
He poured three cups of the guava-pineapple mixture and brought them back to the other side of the room. He placed them down between Marchetti, who was still making strange sounds of pleasure, and Gamay, who was scowling like an assistant principal ready to put everyone in detention.
Paul offered her one of the cups. She shook her head in disgust.
“When you two are done enjoying your spa day, maybe we could try and figure out a way to escape?”
“I tried the windows,” Paul said.
“Oh, you’ll never get through those,” Marchetti promised. “They’re designed to withstand a Force 10 gale.”
“What about doors?”
“Key-coded from the outside,” he said, shifting his position in the chair. “No way to access the control box from in here. If you notice, we don’t even have a handle.”
“I noticed,” Gamay said.
Marchetti pushed back into the seat a little farther, and the tumblers began to vibrate, shaking him and giving his voice a strange staccato sound like someone pounding on his own chest as he spoke. “I … think … we … should … just … sit … tight …” he said. “Conserve … our … energy …”
Paul saw the fires of fury rise up in Gamay’s eyes. He got out of the way quickly as she lunged toward Marchetti and his chair. She grabbed the plug and yanked it out of the wall. The massage ended abruptly.
Marchetti looked stunned. Paul guessed his own session was now on permanent hold.
“You’d better get serious,” she growled. “These people aren’t playing a game. That wench Zarrina killed one of your crewmen, and who knows how many others in her time. And if we don’t get ourselves out of here, they’re going to kill us before this is over.”
Marchetti looked to Paul for help, got none and turned back to Gamay.
“Sorry,” he said finally. “Denial is my favorite coping mechanism. When you have a billion dollars, problems have a way of disappearing if you ignore them long enough.”
“This one isn’t going away,” Gamay said.
Marchetti nodded.
“Do you have any security protocols?” Paul asked. “Any emergency codes or scheduled check-ins that will cause you to be missed?”
Marchetti scratched his head. “Not really,” he said, sounding as if he hated to disappoint them. “Being too accessible kind of messes up the whole reclusive billionaire persona I’ve been trying to cultivate.”
“How do you run your companies?” Paul asked.
“They kind of run themselves.”
“What if you need to give an order?” Gamay said. “What if one of them has to make a big purchase or close a deal or a merger that only you can sign off on?”
“I’d have Matson do it.”
That was a problem.
“So,” Paul said, summing things up, “as long as Matson keeps communicating with the outside world, no one will ever know you’re missing.”
Marchetti nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Gamay looked as glum as Paul felt. “At least until they come up with a nice story about your disappearance during some expedition or other stunt.”
“Yes,” Marchetti said. “I’m starting to realize there are drawbacks to being a recluse.”
“All kinds,” Gamay insisted. “There were rumors that Howard Hughes died years before his official date of death. Probably false, but the thing is he became so isolated no one knew for sure. You’re in the same boat. And if you call it an island, I’ll slap you.”
“Boat,” he agreed. “And assuming we survive, I promise to be far more public from here on out.”
That’s great, Paul thought, but it wasn’t going to help them now. “What do you think they’ve done with the rest of the crew?”
“A couple of them seemed to be on Zarrina’s side,” Gamay said.
“The others are probably locked up like we are,” Marchetti added. “There are five cells down here.”
“Keeping us spread out,” Paul said, “prevents us from plotting against them.”
“What about your people?” Marchetti asked. “The ones back in Washington. You’re expected to report and check in. Surely you’ll be missed.”
Paul exchanged a knowing glance with his wife, after years together their minds melding in some way. “Not quickly enough.”
“What do you mean?”
Paul explained. “We send them data every twenty-four hours. But it won’t be too hard for Zarrina and Otero to fake it. She knows what we’ve been sending and what we’re after. I imagine it’ll be quite some time before anyone becomes suspicious.”