Buzz peered through the Leica binoculars and looked at the dock. “It’s getting busy,” he said. “A yellow Lamborghini has arrived at the Conqueror’s berth. Looks like the driver is doing a lot of pointing and shouting.”
“That would be the owner,” said Jonah. “He always had a thing for Italian supercars. And shouting.”
Dr. Nassiri picked up a second pair of binoculars and took a look for himself. “Is he supposed to be that orange?” he asked, referring to the former CEO’s obnoxious fake tan.
“You’re the doctor, you tell me.”
“Security personnel are boarding the patrol boats,” said Dr. Nassiri. “I believe it is likely that the captain has radioed for assistance.”
“We’re running out of time,” added Buzz with a snarl. “This wouldn’t be a problem if they were all zip tied below decks.”
“Still not a problem,” said Jonah. “I just have to bypass the security lockout.” His fingers danced across the console, pulling up systems schematics across the screens. “Too bad… I really wanted to see the expression on his face when I stole his boat.”
“I assure you, its quite apoplectic,” said Dr. Nassiri dryly. Neither one of the Nassiri cousins could tear their eyes away from the binoculars and the mobilizing security forces.
The engines sputtered, turned over, and stopped.
“Shit,” said Jonah. The computer had locked him out again and automatically cut the engines. He tried pushing through another subroutine, searching for a back door into the core systems.
“We are now dangerously low on time,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Are you certain you can do this?”
“I can do this,” said Jonah through gritted teeth. There it was — the software back door. The console in front of him lit up like a Christmas tree, a thousand individual indicator lights flicking to life at once. The engines roared, nearly knocking Buzz over as the entire yacht jolted forward. Jonah throttled up, breathing life into the massive machine. She was a thing of beauty, surging forward, slowly at first, the powerful engines kicking out a churning wake almost as long as the ship herself. The patrol boats were blinded by the spray, knocking into one another behind the speeding yacht.
Dr. Nassiri clapped a hand on Jonah’s back, smiling with the pure pleasure of escape and success — and relief. Jonah couldn’t help himself. With his hand on the tiller of the most beautiful ship he’d ever had the pleasure of stealing, he grinned from ear to ear.
The indicators passed fifty knots, then sixty, before topping out almost to eighty. Even the untrained ear could hear the engines singing in beautiful harmony and rhythm, perfectly tuned, precisely attenuated for the task at hand. The howling engines drowned out all else but the starry night sky as Malta disappeared behind them.
“So tell me, what did you have against her previous owner?” asked the doctor.
“That’s a story for another day,” answered Jonah.
CHAPTER 5
Dr. Nassiri hung from the back deck of the Conqueror on an improvised climber’s harness, swaying as the ship cut through the tranquil blue waters of the eastern Mediterranean. He leaned back, bracing his feet against the stern, closing his eyes as he allowed his face to soak up the sunlight. A bundle of steel wool swung from a string, attached to his belt loop. Combined with a carefully applied series of caustic chemicals, he’d found the wool more than adequate in removing the namesake Conqueror from the stern of the yacht. The next task was infinitely more pleasing, painting a new name with a set of artist’s oils.
Despite the rocking of the yacht, he found his surgeon’s hand well equipped for the task. Shirtless, he moved with the waves as he held the rope with one hand and painted with the other, using the inside of his free forearm to dab off drips from the brush. He hadn’t painted anything in years, despite the deeply loved pastime. Appropriate for a surgeon, he preferred nudes from life, his brush deliberately reproducing the human beauty of anatomical musculature.
Jonah and Youssef were in another section of the ship, disguising it further for the eventual passage through the Suez Canal. The labor required whiting out an entire row of glass windows with thick marine paint, removing distinctive superstructure indicators and disabling the marine transponder. Between the disguise and false paperwork, Jonah believed they’d have the cover necessary to pass through the Suez Canal and into the Indian Ocean.
When Dr. Nassiri expressed his concerns, Jonah said it would have worked a couple of years ago. He couldn’t say for certain now.
“The worst they can do is throw us in prison,” Jonah had said, laughing. “Status quo for me.”
It was then that Dr. Nassiri decided he’d rename the megayacht Fool’s Errand. Maddeningly, Jonah’s alpha-male swagger actually worked on Youssef. The soldier started following the disagreeable American around like a lost puppy. Youssef delighted in the fact that Jonah actually called him “Buzz,” a nickname first given to his cousin by an American training officer.
Dr. Nassiri found the nickname deeply shameful to his family, an affront to both his culture and his cousin’s dignity. The nickname had not been ordained with affection. Youssef earned it during a morning engagement drill when, returning from a piss, he’d managed to entangle a rat’s nest of pubic hair into the zipper of his combat trousers. The resulting yelp had alerted opponents to his team’s position, losing the exercise and earning him a vicious beating by his own team. Both ailments sent him to the infirmary, whereupon the American training officer took one look and dryly told him to “buzz that shit,” to prevent a reoccurrence.
A series of ringing shotgun blasts rattled Dr. Nassiri’s thoughts, shaking him out of his gloomy reflection. He froze.
Several more shots from the bow. Then, another sound entirely — could it be laughter?
Dr. Nassiri pulled himself away from the incomplete project and scaled the ladder up to the rear deck. He smelled the thick, acrid scent of expensive cigars. Walking up the exterior passage past the bridge, his eyes first fell onto a blanket laid out on the bow deck, covered corner to corner with a wide assortment of antique weaponry and ammunition. A pearl-handled Colt 1911 lay next to several Remington shotguns, 38 snub noses and two fully-automatic Thompson machine guns straight out of a 1930s Chicago gangster movie.
Youssef and Jonah ignored him. Jonah balanced a drum-magazine Thompson machine gun in his hands, practicing shouldering and lowering it while Youssef rooted through a crate of expensive wines and liquors, looking for an appropriate vintage.
“Pull, motherfucker!” shouted Jonah to Youssef.
Youssef laughed and grabbed a bottle of Bollinger Blac de Noisrs Vieilles 1997. He leaned back and hurled it like a Molotov cocktail. It spun through the air beautifully as Jonah opened fire, sending up arcing lines of bullets after the spinning bottle. Dr. Nassiri plugged his ears, and on the third burst of bullets, Jonah finally caught a bottom corner of the bottle, exploding the $10,000 champagne in a shower of white foam and green glass.
Dr. Nassiri glanced over the spread. In case the hooligans ran out of bottles before bullets, Youssef had helpfully gathered a large pile of silver serving dishes.
Dr. Nassiri loudly cleared his throat, and then again. Nothing. Neither of the shooters wore any kind of ear protection, they simply hadn’t heard him. In frustration, Dr. Nassiri kicked the pile of silver, and it clattered to the deck. Jonah and Youssef whipped around to face the doctor.
“I do hope you are not intoxicated,” said Dr. Nassiri in the most openly patronizing tone he could muster.
“Join us — have a stogie,” said Jonah, waving the acrid cigar in the doctor’s face.