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“You fucking stupid or something?” Buzz demanded with a whisper. “I told you I was first on deck. You going to clear rooms with that plastic peashooter, you deaf Yankee fuck?”

Jonah replied with a masturbatory gesture.

“I don’t have fucking time for this,” said Buzz. He shouldered the weapon and disappeared into the main cabin.

Dr. Nassiri shrugged off his equipment. He felt quite relieved that the underwater portion of this particular plan had come to an end, despite the fact that the dangerous phase had not even yet begun.

The doctor’s large mesh diving grab bag was stuffed with two bulky shrink-wrapped cubes. While Jonah raised his head over the deck to spy on the guards, Dr. Nassiri slung the bag over his shoulder and ascended the boarding ladder and off the slipway.

Leaving the doctor behind, Jonah crept the exterior length of the ship holding a titanium dive knife, slipping the razor-sharp blade through one mooring line after another. By the time he’d reached the final thick nylon line, the massive yacht had already begun to pivot away from the dock, carried out into the harbor by the receding tide. Buzz silently joined Jonah at the bow, the best vantage point to the dock and still-inert patrol boats. Buzz gave Jonah a curt nod and took up a position, intending to stay there. Jonah shook his head in irritation.

Automatic sliding glass doors silently opened in front of Jonah. Just inside the foyer, Dr. Nassiri stashed the mesh duffle underneath a curio table and unwrapped his black Beretta. Jonah and the doctor covered each other as they moved on tiptoes across the colored marble floor of the foyer, leaving behind splotchy wet footprints.

Passing between twin faux Greek columns, they entered into the salon, scanning the dark burlwood fixtures for signs of occupancy. They passed beside the chef’s kitchen, then descended the stairs to the four unoccupied staterooms and the locked crew cabins. The owner, infamous for his all-night parties, had not yet returned. Jonah cracked the door to the crew cabin then closed it again.

Stepping into the engine room was like stepping into a space station. The compartment reserved for the massive turbine engines dwarfed every other cabin within the entirety of the vessel. It was truly the beating heart of a beautiful mechanical organism. The turbine system required endless rolls of neatly secured insulation, and a bank of computers were set aside to monitor system statistics and operations. Dr. Nassiri imagined that even at a comfortable cruising speed, the Conqueror was designed to inhale a prodigious amount of expensive high-octane fuel. Unlike the sumptuous old-world tones of the rest of the yacht, this room was pure tech.

“I have to credit the owner for this marvel,” said Dr. Nassiri.

“Yeah, but can’t say I feel much guilt for stealing it,” mused Jonah.

The doctor agreed. That morning at their hotel, he’d done a little investigating on his own. The Conqueror’s owner was a retired CEO, one of the pioneers in the practice of chopping up subprime mortgages and selling them for cheap, tanking the American economy, and nearly taking down the world with it. Still, his taste in yachting could not be denied.

Jonah stripped off his hood to reveal a sharp face, newly cut short hair, and a closely trimmed blonde beard to top his tall but still-thin, muscled frame.

“Last chance to call it off, Doc,” he said. “Ditch the guns, jump overboard, and we haven’t done anything that can’t be walked back with a sincere apology and a good lawyer.”

“Thank you for the consideration, Mr. Blackwell,” Dr. Nassiri said with a grim smile. “But my commitment to see this through remains unchanged.” He stripped off his hood as well, revealing tussled black hair that framed his dark eyes and classically handsome features.

“We’re stealing a yacht together,” Jonah said with a laugh, slapping the doctor on the back. “If that doesn’t put us on a first-name basis, I don’t know what will. Call me Jonah.”

“I suppose it goes without saying that I have much more to lose than you,” Dr. Nassiri said, intentionally refusing the familiarity.

“If you say so.”

Dr. Nassiri had known full well that his mission would likely require some bending of the rules, but he hadn’t truly come to terms with the magnitude of the criminality until he had slipped into his wetsuit and slid into the dark Mediterranean Sea. Since removing Jonah from Prison 14, the doctor had come to realize that the American was the type who figured any problem that couldn’t be solved with a sledgehammer, could be solved with two sledgehammers or a roll of det cord. Dr. Nassiri knew Jonah wasn’t a criminal, not in the traditional sense, but despite his protests, Jonah appeared quite comfortable with the criminality at hand. And the more at ease Jonah was, the more Dr. Nassiri ached to get the whole thing over with, salvage what he could of his mother’s research, find her body, and take her home. And then to return to his real life.

The doctor busied himself with his duffel, removing two massive cubes of shrink-wrapped euros. Jonah looked over his shoulder as the doctor handled the 500-euro notes, the chosen vehicle of international financial smugglers. The sum total of the Nassiri family fortune and a decade of savings, it amounted to more than a million euros.

A strange enterprise, this, thought Dr. Nassiri. Stealing a yacht while bringing enough money to charter one free and clear.

“See something you like, Mr. Blackwell?” asked the doctor, feeling Jonah’s eyes on his money.

“Yeah, I’m looking at your money.”

“It’d be easy,” said Dr. Nassiri. “You have me dead to rights with that German pistol of yours. You could end this fool’s errand right now.”

“Don’t tempt me. And the story about your mom better not be bullshit.”

The doctor sighed and stood up. Jonah followed him to the bridge, both abandoning the money in the center of the foyer.

“Go secure that cash,” said Jonah. “I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if it’s not just laying around. Oh, and your cousin? I think he’s going to be butthurt if he doesn’t get the chance to blow someone away.”

“Don’t worry about Youssef,” said Dr. Nassiri. He stuffed the Euros back in the duffel and slung it over his shoulder. “I remind you that he can handle himself, thank you.”

The doctor followed as Jonah led the way back up to the bridge. He was not disappointed in the layout of the command compartment — three leather bound racing seats, futuristic joysticks, monitors, and control panels surrounded by steep-angled windows, none of which would have been out of place on a sci-fi movie set.

Dr. Nassiri knocked on one of the side windows, getting Buzz’s attention, who then relinquished his position on deck and entered through a side door.

“We’re drifting away from the dock,” said Buzz. “It’s time to deal with the crew.” With that pronouncement, Buzz chambered a round to his ridiculous assault rifle for effect. Jonah scowled, and Dr. Nassiri joined him in the displeasure. The doctor didn’t like the idea of killing anyone, and certainly not over a yacht.

“Cousin Hassan, you take a position on the bridge,” said Buzz. “Blackwell and I will take the crew quarters one at a time. He’ll cover the door while I subdue and zip tie the crew. We’re outnumbered here — so don’t take shit. Somebody yells, somebody resists, put them down quick, move on.”

Jonah stopped paying attention and began scanning the lengthy control board, brushing against the custommilled aluminum buttons with outstretched fingers.

“Now after we take the first room, some of them may get wise and — Blackwell, am I fucking boring you here?”

There it was — the American had found whatever he’d been looking for. Jonah cleared his throat and pressed a shipwide intercom.