“And Mussolini?”
Chatterjee inclined his head. “Now that is the question we are here to answer.”
Kastor had no choice but to tolerate this man’s brashness. But who was he to judge. He, too, had exhibited that quality on more than one occasion to more than one superior.
Pope Francis had been the worst.
They’d never seen eye-to-eye. How could they? The crazed Argentine was far more concerned with people worshiping him than protecting the faith. It is not necessary to believe in God to be a good person. What a ludicrous statement to be made by the Vicar of Christ. The traditional notion of God is outdated. How did Francis think a billion faithful would react to such nonsense? It is not necessary to go to church and give money. Really? Talk about naïveté. For many, nature can be a church. Pure garbage. Some of the best people in history did not believe in God, while some of the worst deeds were done in his name.
On that alone Francis had been right.
“Thankfully,” Chatterjee said, “you have me to aid your quest. I’ve been working on this for some time.”
News to him. “What have you learned?”
His visitor stepped close to the parapets. “Before we discuss that, there’s a matter we have to deal with.” Chatterjee pointed out to the water. “You see the black-and-red boat.”
He watched as the designated towboat pitched through the water, keeping a single parasailer aloft in the hot sirocco, which continued to sough, rising in strength and hissing across the tower.
Chatterjee waved his arms in the air.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Solving that problem.”
CHAPTER SIX
Luke heard the words solving that problem and saw one of the men on the Madliena Tower waving his arms.
Crap.
He’d been made.
He glanced down three hundred feet at the towboat and saw the attendant who’d helped him into the harness wielding a machete.
Ah, come on.
“To the man out there hanging in the air,” a voice in English said in his ear. “If you can hear me, raise your arm.”
He decided to not be any more predictable than he’d apparently already been and did nothing.
“Really?” the voice said in his ear. “I know you can hear me.”
What the hell. He raised his arm.
“Much better. Technology is such a marvel. Of course, I doubt you speak Malti, which is why I chose it up to now. I don’t appreciate you listening in on my private conversation.”
The voice carried—a British accent.
How had he been found out? Good question. He’d been abruptly rerouted from another assignment and told to fly directly to Malta, with intel on a meeting at the Madliena Tower at 1:00 P.M. today. He’d arrived yesterday, checked into a hotel, then immediately reconnoitered the locale and, while there, noticed parasailers offshore. So he’d quietly hired the boat for the next afternoon, but somewhere along the way there’d been a leak.
Big time.
“You’ll not be making any reports back to your superiors,” the voice said in his ear. “I’m told you’re with American intelligence. This really doesn’t concern the United States in any way.”
I’m told? By who?
But this wasn’t a two-way conversation.
“Here’s an interesting piece of local folklore,” the voice said. “The Maltese paint their boats in bright colors to ward off bad spirits and coax good luck. Sadly for you, the one headed your way will offer neither.”
He stared out over the water and spotted a boat, striped in bright bands of blue and yellow, racing straight for his position. He saw two men, one piloting, the other shouldering a rifle, their attention directly ahead.
At the Madliena Tower he caught another wave of arms.
The man below on the towboat stepped onto the stern platform and started hacking at the braided nylon hoist rope. Each thrust was accompanied by a troublesome vibration that reached all the way up the line. The man then stopped chopping and started sawing.
The towrope snapped.
His forward acceleration stopped and for an instant he was suspended high in the air, floating, at the mercy of the strong southern winds. The new boat with the two men swept in closer as the towboat sped away. Other boats had moved off with their parasailers.
He started to descend.
Faster than normal. No surprise. These chutes were super lightweight, loaded with venting meant for staying up, not landing soft.
The Med was approaching fast.
He wasn’t wearing boots, nor were his ankles taped for a hard landing. He wore only shorts and a shirt with tennis shoes, all bought this morning at a Valletta store. He’d brought along only a few euros, the laser ear, and keys to his rental car.
The water was less than fifty feet away.
Time to be a Ranger again.
He worked the harness, releasing the buckles, one hand over his head gripped to the steel riser that supported his weight on the chute. Once in the water he’d have to free himself fast, then deal with the newcomers.
He hit hard and submerged, shaking off the cold water, wiggling from the harness, then clawing upward. He broke the surface and saw that the boat with the two men had drawn close. He was a quarter mile offshore and the currents were working against him. No way he could swim to land. He saw the man with the rifle level the weapon, aiming his way. He sucked a deep breath, tucked and rolled, then powered himself deep.
Bullets swished downward, slowed by the dense water.
He stopped sinking and settled, maintaining depth, staring back up to the surface. He could not hold his breath forever. And what was the old saying? A good offense is the best defense.
He kicked hard and made a free ascent, swimming beneath the dark outline of the boat. The angle of the bullets still trying to find their way through the water indicated on which side the men thought he would surface. He kept his eyes on the keel, staying close to the swaying hulk. The outboard rested in idle, the boat drifting along with the current. If they decided to power up and speed off he could be in real trouble from a spinning prop.
He surfaced and sucked a quiet breath, waiting until his side of the boat rocked down, then he planted his palms and used the sway back up from the swells to flip out of the water.
His body felt primed, coiled, his brain calm and controlled. He had only an instant of surprise, which he used to his advantage, pivoting off the gunnel and kicking the pilot in the chest, sending the man over the side.
The guy with the rifle swung around.
Luke lunged forward and, with a solid right, caught the guy hard in the jaw, then pounced and wrenched the weapon away, slamming the rifle butt up under the shooter’s chin.
Something cracked and the man slumped to the gunnel.
He shoved the body into the water.
That was easy.
Now he had the high ground.
He stared across at the Madliena Tower. Gallo and the other man were still there, watching. He laid the rifle down and pushed the throttle forward. The engine roared to life. He swung the boat around toward shore and heard a shot.
Behind him.
He turned.
Another boat was racing his way.
Single occupant wearing a ball cap, steering the craft and firing a handgun. He had the rifle, but he could not pilot the boat and fire too. He started to zigzag across the water, making himself a more difficult target.