With a silent prayer to the nameless divine entities he called upon when one of his horses took the lead in a race, Charlie started jogging toward the marina. He tried to think of himself as a Grand Hotel guest, entitled to romp wherever he damned well pleased, and he hoped he projected this air. Particularly to Captain Glenny.
Bream had been gone for a couple of minutes when Charlie reached the pier. He exchanged a friendly smile with a man on a catamaran, then ran-although not too fast for a jogger-toward the Campodonicos’ yacht.
There was no sign of anyone aboard. Charlie heard only the wind and the creaks of the yacht as it rose and fell in the water. Stepping onto the stern, he ought to have been nervous, but he felt something akin to exhilaration.
A few steps along the narrow side deck and he reached one of the slightly opened cabin windows. The glass slid all the way open with a gentle pull. He fit through, barely, tumbling onto a cream-colored carpet and into a corridor lined with enough framed maritime maps for a museum.
He followed it to a spacious dining room with a table for eight. The adjacent kitchen had all of the necessary appliances found in a luxury home. Except a washing machine.
Holding his breath, he tiptoed down a spiral staircase, with solid mahogany steps, to the lower deck. A television glowed in one of the staterooms, giving him a start, but no one was there. The two other staterooms contained only tall beds and built-in cabinets.
Still no washing machine or sign of one.
At the end of the corridor was a closet. Without expecting much, Charlie pulled open its bifold door to find a surprisingly compact laundry alcove with plenty of shelves, a foldout ironing board, and, alongside a modern dryer, a cheap, boxy Perriman Pristina, still spotted with muck from the cavern.
Eureka, he thought.
He reached to pull open the top-loading lid when he heard a bolt snap above-deck.
Fear hit him like a bullwhip.
The cabin door creaked open. He heard at least two sets of footsteps.
“How ’bout a cold beer, Steve?” Bream asked. “I got you the nonalcoholic stuff.”
“Very kind, thank you.” A low, raspy voice with a strong Middle Eastern accent. “But let us get on please with the business?”
“That’d be just fine,” said Bream, letting the door bang shut and tramping in the direction of the staircase. “All due respect.”
Charlie considered the staterooms, distinctly lacking in places to hide. Ducking beneath the ironing board, he stuffed himself into the ten-inch gap between the rear of the washing machine and the wall. He would have tripped over the washing machine’s tattered orange power cord, stretched into a wall socket, but there was no room to fall.
He sank to one knee. The space was dark and otherwise like the back of a clothes closet.
“While I’m thinking of it, you should have these, just in case you need to move the boat for whatever reason,” Bream said, jangling something. His leather sandals came into view at the base of the stairs.
Charlie held still, hoping the jackhammer that used to be his heart wouldn’t draw Bream’s attention.
Stepping into the lower deck’s corridor, Bream handed a set of keys back to Steve, a swarthy boar of a man, probably twenty-five, with close-set, black eyes. His crisp Levi’s and shiny new Florida Marlins jersey and Converse All Star high-tops ironically accentuated his foreignness.
“Thank you kindly,” Steve said, pocketing the keys. He looked around until his eyes settled on the washing machine. He stared.
Charlie’s heart nearly leaped out of his mouth as Steve advanced for a closer look. Charlie used muscles he hadn’t realized he had in order to hold still.
Steve pointed to the washer’s control panel. “So is this button actually the trigger?”
Bream stepped up, so close Charlie could have reached out through the gap between the washer and dryer and touched his knee.
“You mean the start button?” Bream leaned forward and clicked it.
The blood drained from Steve’s face.
The machine belched and the length of hose running past Charlie swelled, filling with water from the copper piping on the wall. Water splattered into the washer.
Taking in Steve’s disquiet, Bream chuckled. “The water trickles in for about five minutes, then drains out and the machine turns back off. It’s a little special effect in case a customs inspector happens to turn the thing on, which they do sometimes.”
Steve heaved a breath of relief. “I was not ready yet.”
Steve is about to martyr himself, Charlie thought, and Bream is fucking with his head. Whatta guy.
“Check this out.” Bream flipped open the lid.
Steve looked in, surprised. “No water.”
“The water goes into a special compartment in the back of the machine.”
“Ah.”
“Of course, if the inspector opened the lid, it’s game over. There’s no way of disguising the bomb.” Bream pointed into the washer. “See the three dials there?”
“Yes. The progressive action links. I received thorough training with them from Doctor Zakir.”
“Good. You’ll be glad to know that to save you the trouble, he dialed in the code to arm the device. Then he paused it, two seconds into a ten-minute countdown. Here …” Bream handed Steve a device that looked like a TV remote control. “The good doctor rigged this, too. At game time tonight, you simply click the big red button and the countdown resumes at nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds. If you need to pause for whatever reason, click the button again. It’s basically a play and a pause button in one. The batteries are fresh, and you’ve got more up on the kitchen counter. If for whatever reason the remote malfunctions and you need to use the PALs, the code’s here.” Bream pointed to the area of the control panel where, Charlie recalled, the serial number had been engraved onto a strip of metal.
Steve nodded.
“So you ought to be all set.” Lowering the lid, Bream turned to go. “The fridge is stocked with all your favorite stuff-don’t worry, all halal.”
“And you will be where?” Steve asked.
Bream turned toward the staircase. “Outside the blast radius.”
“What if there’s a malfunction?”
“If anything goes wrong, Cheb Qatada knows how to reach Zakir or me-I know you’ve got the boss on speed dial.” Bream inched toward the stairs.
Charlie was eager for him to leave. It would mean contending with only Steve.
“Well, good, then, Mr. Bream,” Steve said. “Thank you most kindly.”
“The kind thanks are for you, Steve.” Bream bounded toward the stairs.
He stopped just shy of the first step and spun back around, eyes on the laundry door. “That folding door was open when we came down here, wasn’t it?”
Steve nodded.
Charlie’s blood froze. He needed an exit strategy. It was right up there with a weapon on the list of omissions in his planning.
Bream knelt, studying the floor.
Could he detect Charlie’s footprints on the linoleum?
He sprang into the master bedroom, refreshing Charlie’s hope. Because the laundry alcove looked prohibitively small, Bream and Steve might not think to look behind the appliances.
A moment later Bream returned from the bedroom with a Glock capped by a silencer. He faced the washing machine. He couldn’t possibly see Charlie, but the barrel of his gun was on a direct line with Charlie’s face.
“Please come out now and save me from putting a bullet hole in my nice dryer,” he said.