Текст книги "Treasure"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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"Yes, sir," snapped Jories. "Depend on it."

"W. Parker.

"Captain .

"A landing craft will arrive within the hour to transship a cargo for the company. You will be in charge of the loading operations. A team of security people will also be coming aboard this evening. Please see they are provided with suitable quarters.

"Rather short notice, isn't it, sir, taking on cargo? And I thought the Egyptian and Mexican security agents weren't due until early morning."

"Our company directors work in mysterious ways," Ammar said philosophically. "As to our armed guests, company orders again. They want their own security personnel on board in case of a problem."

"A matter of one security team overseeing another."

"Something like that. I believe Lloyds demanded extra precautions or they threatened to raise our insurance rate to some astronomical height."

"I understand."

"any questions, gentlemen?"

There were none and the two officers turned to leave. "Herbert, there is one more thing," said Ammar. "Please load the cargo as quietly and quickly as possible."

"I will, sir."

Once they were out of earshot on the deck, Parker turned to Jones. "Did you hear that? He called me by my first name. Don't you think that jolly queer?"

Jones shrugged indifferently. "He must be sicker than we thought.

The landing craft came alongside and a small cargo boom was run out. The loading operation went smoothly. The rest of Ammar's men, dressed in business suits, also came on board and were assigned to four empty suites.

By midnight the landing craft slipped into the darkness and was gone.

The Lady Flamborough's cargo boom was pulled into the hold out of sight and the large double loading doors were closed.

Ammar rapped five times on Finney's door and waited. The door was cracked slightly and the guard stood back. Arnniar took a quick look up and down the carpeted passageway and entered.

He nodded toward the Captain. The guard moved forward and stripped the tape from Collins's mouth. "I regret the inconvenience, Captain. But I suppose it would be a waste of words to ask you to give me your word you won't attempt to escape and warn your crew."

Collins sat stiffly in a chair, his arms and legs chained together, and glared at Ammar with murder in his eyes. "You sordid sewer filth."

"You British have a literary quality to your insults that is quite amusing. An American would have simply used a fourletter word meaning the same thing."

"You'll get no cooperation from me or my officers."

"Not even if I order my men to slit the throats of your female crew members one by one and throw their bodies to the sharks?"

Finney lunged at Ammar but the guard swiftly swung the butt end of his automatic rifle into the first officer's groin. Finney fell back into his chair with a muffled groan, his eyes glazed in pain.

Collins's eyes never left Ammar. "I'd expect as much from a band of subhuman terrorists."

"We are not ignorant juveniles out to butcher infidels," Ammar explained patiently. "We are top-line professionals. This is not a repeat of the unfortunate Achille Lauro episode of a few years back. We do not intend to murder anyone. Our purpose is simply to hold Presidents Hasan and De Lorenzo and their staffs for ransom. If you do not stand in our way, we shall make our deal with their respective governments and be on our way."

Collins studied Ammar's mirrored face, searching for the lie, but the Arab's eyes reflected genuine honesty. He could not know Ammar was a master at theatrical deception.

"But you wouldn't hesitate to butcher my crew otherwise."

"And you too, of course."

"What do you want from me?"

"You, actually nothing. Mr. Parker and Mr. Jones have accepted me as Oliver Collins. It's First Officer Finney whose services I require. You will order him to obey my commands."

"Why Finney?" asked Collins.

"I opened the desk file in your cabin and read the officers' personal records. Finney knows these waters."

"I don't see what you're getting at."

"We cannot afford the risk of calling for a pilot," explained Animar.

"Tomorrow after dark, Finney will take the helm and steer the ship through the channel into the open sea."

Collins considered that. Then he slowly shook his head. "Once the port authorities get on to you they'll block the harbor entrance whether you threaten to kill everyone on board or not."

"A darkened ship can slip out on a dark night," Ammar assured him.

"How far do you expect to go? Every patrol boat within a hundred miles will have you boxed in by daylight."

... They won't find us."

Collins looked slightly dazed. "That's crazy. You can't hide a ship like the Lady Flamborough."

"Quite true," said Ammar, a cold, knowing smile forming on his lips.

"But I can make her invisible."

Jones was bent over a desk in his cabin making notes for the morning's welcoming ceremonies when Parker knocked on the door and entered. He looked tired and his uniform was damp with sweat.

Jones turned and looked at him. "Loading duty finished?"

"Yes, thank God."

"How about a nightcap?"

"A glass of your good Scottish malt whiskey?"

Jones rose and lifted a bottle from a dresser drawer. He poured two glasses and handed one to Parker.

"Look at it this way," he said. "You were relieved of standing early-morning anchor watch."

"I'd have preferred that to cargo loading," said Parker tiredly. "What about you?"

"Just got off duty."

"I wouldn't have bothered you if I hadn't seen a light through your port."

"Burning the midnight oil, making sure everything runs tick-tock smooth tomorrow."

"Finney isn't about and I felt I had to talk to someone.

for the first time Jones noticed the confused expression in Parker's eyes. "What's bothering you?"

Parker downed the Scotch and stared at the empty glass.

"We've just taken on the damnedest cargo I've ever seen come on board a cruise liner."

"What did you load?" asked Jones, his curiosity aroused.

Parker sat quite still, shaking his head. "Painting gear. Air compressors, brushes, rollers and fifty drums of what I assumed was paint."

Jones couldn't resist asking, "What color?"

Parker shook his head. "Can't say. The drums were marked in Spanish."

"Nothing odd about that. The company must want them on hand when the Lady Flamborough goes in for a refit."

"That's only the half of it. We transshipped huge rolls of plastic. "

"Plastic?"

"And great sheets of fiberboard," Parker continued. "We must have loaded kilometers of the stuff. We barely squeezed it ugh the loading doors. Mucked around a good three hours just trying to stow it."

Jones stared at his glass through half-open eyes. "What do you suppose the company plans to do with it?"

Parker looked up at Jones with a puzzled frown. "I haven't the foggiest idea."

"The Egyptian and Mexican security agents came on board soon after sunup and proceeded to inspect the ship for hidden explosives and make cursory checks of the crew members' records for any hint of a possible assassin.

Except for a sprinkling of Indians and Pakistanis, the members of the crew were British, and had no quarrel with the governments of either Egypt or Mexico.

Animar's terrorist team all spoke fluent English and acted very cooperative, showing their counterfeit British passports and insurance-security documents when asked, and offering their assistance in the ship's inspection.

President De Lorenzo came on board later in the morning. He was a short man in his early sixties, physically robust, with wind-blown gray hair, mournful dark eyes, and the suffering look of an intellectual condemned to a mental institution.

He was welcomed by Ammar impersonating Captain Collins in an award-winning performance. The ship's orchestra played the Mexican national anthem, and then the Mexican leader and his staff were escorted to their suites on the starboard side of the Lady Flamborough.

In the middle of the afternoon a yacht belonging to a wealthy Egyptian exporter came alongside and President Hasan climbed onto the ship. The Egyptian leader was the complete opposite of his Mexican counterpart. He was younger, just past his fifty-fourth birthday, with thinning, black hair. He stood slim and tall, yet he moved with the halting movements of a man who was ill. His dusky eyes were watery and seemed to stare through a filter of suspicion.

The ceremony was repeated and President Hasan along with his staff were quartered in the suites running the length of the port side.

Over fifty Third World heads of state had arrived in Punta del Este for the economic summit. Some chose to stay in palatial estates owned by their nation's citizens or at the exclusive Cantegril Country Club.

Others preferred the offshore quiet of the cruise ships.

Visiting diplomats and journalists soon crowded the streets and restaurants. Uruguayan officials worried whether they could cope with the sudden mass of important foreigners combined with the routine influx of tourists. The nation's military force and police units did their best to control the situation, but they were soon overwhelmed by the human tidal wave sweeping the streets, and they gave up all attempts at traffic control, concentrating their efforts on guarding the summit meeting leaders.

Ammar stood on the starboard bridge wing and surveyed the teeming city through binoculars. He lowered them for a moment and checked his watch for the fifth time.

His close friend studied him carefully. "Are you counting the minutes until nightfall, Suleiman Aziz?"

"Sunset in forty-three minutes," said Ammar without turning.

"The water is busy," said Ibn, nodding at the fleet of small boats darting around the harbor, their decks crowded with journalists demanding interviews and tourists hoping to spot international celebrities.

"Allow no one to board except Egyptian and Mexican delegates who belong on boarDe Lorenzo and Hasan's staffs."

"And if any wish to go ashore before we leave poll?"

"Permit them to do so," said Ammar. "Ship's routine must appear nominal. The confusion in the city works to our advantage. We won't be missed until it's too late."

"The port authorities are no fools. When our lights fail to come on after dark, they will investigate."

"They'll be notified that our main generator is under repair." Ammar pointed toward another cruise liner that was anchored farther offshore between the Lady Flamborough and the encircling peninsula. "from shore her lights will seem like ours. "

"Unless someone looks closely enough."

Ammar shrugged. "One hour is all we need to make the open sea. The Uruguayan security will not consider a search outside the harbor before daylight."

"If the Egyptian and Mexican security agents are to be removed in time,"

said Ibn, "we must begin now."

"Your weapons are heavily silenced?"

"Our fire will sound no louder than the clap of hands."

Animar gave Ibn a piercing stare. "Stealth and quiet, my tend. Use whatever deception necessary to isolate and take them out one at a time.

Notify me, If any escape overboard and alert the security forces on shore, we all die. Make sure your men understand."

"We'll need every strong back and pair of hands we can muster for this night's work."

"Then it's time to earn our fee and make Yazid ruler of Egypt.

The Egyptian guards were the first to be eliminated. Having no reason to distrust Ammar's fake insurance-security agents, they were easily lured into vacant passenger suites that quickly became killing grounds.

any ruse that rang with a grain of truth was used to decoy the security men. The lie that worked best was deceiving them into believing one of their high-ranking officials was stricken with food poisoning and the ship's captain required their presence.

Once the Egyptian agents crossed the threshold, the door was closed and a hijacker coldly shot them pointblank in the heart. While the blood was quickly cleaned away, the bodies were stacked in an adjoining bedroom.

When the Mexicans' Turn arrived, two of De Lorenzo's guards became suspicious, refusing to enter the suite. But they were swiftly overpowered and knifed in an empty passageway before they could sound the alarm.

One by one the security agents went to their deaths, twelve in all, until only two Egyptians and three Mexicans,'standing guard outside their leaders' suites, were left.

Dusk was closing in from the east as Animar shed his ship's captain's uniform and donned a black cotton jumpsuit. Next he peeled off the latex disguise and slipped a small jester's mask over his face.

He was in the act of tightening a heavy belt containing two automatic pistols and a portable radio around his waist when Ibn knocked and entered the cabin.

"Five remain," he reported. "They can only be taken by direct assault."

"Good work," said Ammar. He gave Ibn a steady stare. "We're past the need for subterfuge. Rush them, but warn your men to be cautious. I don't want Hasan and De Lorenzo accidentally killed."

Ibn nodded and gave the order to one of his men waiting outside the door. Then he turned and again faced Animar with a confident smile.

"Consider the ship secure."

Ammar motioned toward a large brass chronometer above Captain Collins's desk. "We shove off in thirty-seven minutes. Collect all passengers and crew members, except the ship's engineers. See that the engine-room crew is prepared to get underway when I give the command. Assemble the rest in the main dining salon. It's time to reveal ourselves and deliver our demands."

Ibn did not respond but stood without moving, the smile spreading until every tooth showed. "Allah has blessed us with great fortune," he said at last.

Ammar looked at him. "We'll know better whether he's blessed us five

"He's already sent a good omen. She is here."

"She? Who are you talking about?"

"Hala Kan-iil."

At first Ammar could not comprehend. Then he could not believe.

"Karnil, she's here on this ship?"

"She stepped on board less than ten minutes ago," announced Ibn, beaming. "I've placed her under guard in one of the female crew members' quarters."

"Allah is indeed kind," said Ammar incredulously.

"Yes, he has sent the fly to the spider," Ibn said darkly, "and given you a second chance to kill her in the name of Akhmad Yazid.

Just as darkness was approaching, a light tropical rain cleared the sky and passed northward. Lights were blinking to life along Punta del Estes streets and on board the ships in the harbor, casting flickering reflections across the water.

Senator Pitt thought it strange that nothing showed of the Lady Flamborough except her outline against the brightly lit glow of the ship moored behind her. She looked dark and deserted as the launch swung past her bow and came alongside the boarding stairs.

Carrying only a briefcase, the Senator jumped lightly onto the narrow platform. He had hardly climbed two steps before the launch turned away and headed back to the dock area. He reached the deck and found himself standing alone. Something was terribly wrong. His first thought was that he'd boarded the wrong ship.

The only sounds, the only sounds of life were a voice somewhere within the superstructure coming through a speaker system, and the generators humming deep in the bowels of the hull.

He turned to hail the launch but it had already traveled too far for him to be heard above the exhaust of its tired old diesel engine. Then a figure in a black jumpsuit stepped out of the shadows, holding an automatic rifle leveled at the Senator's stomach.

"Is this the Lady Flamborough?" the Senator demanded.

"Who are you?" the voice came back in little more than a whisper. "What is your business here?" The guard stood there, gun held rock-steady, staring with his head cocked at an angle while the Senator explained his presence.

"Senator George Pitt, you say. An American. You were not expected."

"President Hasan was informed of my arrival," said the Senator impatiently. "Please lower your weapon and take me to his quarters."

The guard's eyes glinted suspiciously from the glare of the lights on shore. "Anyone else come with you?"

"No, I'm quite alone."

"You must return ashore."

The Senator tilted his head at the retreating launch. "My transportation has left."

The guard seemed to be thinking it over. Finally he lowered the gun and silently walked a few steps down the deck and stopped beside a doorway.

He held out a frre hand and nodded toward the briefcase.

"In here," he said softly as though it was some kind of secret. "Give me your case."

"Mese are official documents," said the Senator flatly. He clutched his briefcase in both hands and brushed past the guard.

He walked into a heavy black curtain, slapped it to one side and found himself standing in a 2,000-square-meter ballroom/ dining salon. The vast room was paneled in oak and styled after an English manor. A small army of people, some standing, some sitting, wearing either business suits or crew uniforms turned and gazed at him in unison as though he were a ball in a tennis match.

There were nine men spread around the walls, silent, deadly serious men dressed alike in the black jumpsuits and matching jogging shoes; each slowly swept the muzzle of a shoulderslung automatic weapon back and forth over their captive audience.

"Welcome," came the amplified voice of a figure standing on a stage in front of a microphone, a man indistinguishable from the others except for a comical mask covering his face -but with that any sign of humor quickly came to a halt. "Please state your identity."

Senator Pitt stared in confusion. "What's going on here?"

"You will please answer my question," said Ammar with icy politeness.

"Senator George Pitt, United States Congress. I'm here to confer with President Hasan of Egypt. I was told he was staying on board this ship."

"You'll find President Hasan seated in the front row."

"Why are these men holding guns on everyone?"

Ammar feigned weary patience. "Why, Senator, I thought it obvious.

You've blindly walked into the middle of a hijacking.

A growing incomprehension and the tentative beginnings of a dazed fear mushroomed inside Senator Pitt. He moved forward as if hypnotized, past Captain Collins and his officers, and stared at the pale, familiar faces of Presidents Hasan and De Lorenzo. He stopped short and looked down into the stricken eyes of Hala Kamil.

At that moment he realized people were going to die.

He silently put his arm around Hala's shoulder and was swept with sudden anger. "In God's name, do you know what you're doing?"

"I know very well what I'm doing," said Ammar. "Auah has worked with me every step of the way. In your poker idiom, he has sweetened the pot by raising the stakes with the unexpected arrivals of the SecretaryGeneral of the United Nations, and now a distinguished Senator from the United States."

"You've made a grave mistake," the Senator snarled defiantly. "You'll never live to get away with this and brag about it.

" , but I can and I will."

:'Impossible!"

'Not impossible at all," said Ammar with an ominous finality in his voice. "As you shall soon see."

Nichols had donned his overcoat and was stuffing papers inside his attached case before departing for home when his secretary leaned through his open door.

"A gentleman from Langley is here with a drop."

"Have him come in."

A CIA agent whom Nichols recognized entered carrying an old-fashioned leather accountant's-style briefcase.

"You caught me just in time, Keith," said Nichols. "I was on my way home."

Keith Farquar had a bushy mustache, thick brown hair, and wore horned-rimmed glasses. A large, no-nonsense type of man with contemplative eyes, he was, Nichols thought, the kind of agent who made up the solid bulwark of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Without an invitation Farquar sat down in a chair, placed the case on his lap and set the correct numbers on a combination lock that released the catch and switched off the circuit of a small incendiary explosive inside. He lifted out a thin file and placed it on the desk in front of Nichols.

"Mr. Brogan instructed me to tell you that hard data on Akhmad Yazid is extremely sparse. Biographical records regarding birth, parents and ancestors, schooling, marriage, children, or any mention in legal proceedings either criminal or civil, are virtually nonexistent. Most of what our Middle East section was able to put together comes from descriptions of people who have known him. Unfortunately, most of them, for one reason or another, became ene es of Yazid. So their accounts are somewhat biased."

"Did your psychological section make up a profile?" asked Nichols.

"They put together a rough projection. Yazid is as hard to penetrate as a desert sandstorm. A shroud of security has covered him in mystery.

Journalists' interviews with people around him are met with ambiguity and vague shrugs."

"Which adds to the mirage," commented Nichols.

Farquar smiled. "Mr. Brogan's exact description of Yazid. 'An elusive mirage."

"

"'Thank you for bringing the file by," said Nichols. "And thank everyone involved with assembling the information for me."

"Anything for a client." Farquar snapped the catches closed on his briefcase and ambled toward the door. "Have a nice evening."

"You too."

Nichols buzzed for his secretary. She appeared wearing a coat and holding a purse. "Anything I can do before I leave?"

she asked apprehensively, afraid she would be asked to work overtime for the third night in a row.

"Could you please call my wife on your way out?" asked Nichols. "And tell her not to worry. I'll make the dinner party, but will be delayed for about half an hour."

His secretary sighed thankfully. "Yes, sir, I'll tell her. Good night.

"Good night."

Nichols slipped his pipe between his teeth but didn't pack or light the bowl. He set his attache case off to the side of his desk, and, still wearing his overcoat, he sat down and examined Yazid's file.

Farquar had not exaggerated. It was slim pickings. Although the last six years were heavily reported, Yazid's life before his rapid rise from obscurity took up little more than a paragraph. His debut in the news media began with his arrest by Egyptian police during a sit-in demonstration for Cairo's starving masses inside the lobby of a luxury tourist hotel. He had distinguished himself by preaching in the worst slum areas of the country.

Akhmad Yazid stated he was born in squalid poverty in a mud hut among the decaying mausoleums of the City of the Dead that spilled into the garbage dumps of Cairo. His family lived on the thin margin between survival and death until his two sisters and father died from disease brought on by hunger and filthy living conditions.

He had no formal schooling except what was given during his adolescent years by Islamic holy men, none of whom were found to back up this assertion. Yazid claimed Muhammad the Prophet spoke through him, uttering divine revelations to the faiffiffil and urging them to return Egypt to a utopian Islamic state.

Yazid possessed a resonant speaking voice. He had the skilled mannerisms and delivery to enrapture a crowd of listenets, slowly building them to a fever pitch at the finish. He insisted Western philosophy was incapable of resolving Egypt's social/economic problems.

He preached that all Egyptians are members of a lost generation who must find themselves through his moral vision.

Though he vehemently claimed otherwise, evidence indicated he was not above using terrorism to achieve his goals. Five separate incidents, including the murder of a high-ranking Air Force general, a truck explosion outside the Soviet Embassy, and the execution-style killing of four university teachers who spoke out in favor of Western ways, were traced to Yazid's doorstep. Nothing was proven but through sketchy information gained from Muslim infomiants, CIA analysts felt certain Yazid was planning a masterstroke to eliminate president Hasan and sweep into power on a rising wave of public acclaim.

Nichols laid down the file and finally filled and lit his pipe.

A tiny, indefinable thought tugged at him from the far reaches of his mind.

Something about the report struck him as vaguely familiar. He laid aside a glossy photo of Yazid glaring malevolently at the camera.

The answer suddenly struck Nichols. It was simple and it was shocking.

He picked up his telephone and punched the coded number of a direct line, impatiently drumming the desk top with his fingers until a voice answered on the other end.

"This is Brogan."

"Martin, thank heavens you're working late. This is Dale Nichols."

"What can I do for you, Dale?" asked the Director of the CIA. "Did you get the packet on Akhmad Yazid?"

"Yes, thank you," replied Nichols. "I've gone through it and found something you can help me with."

"Sure, what is it?"

"I need two sets of blood types and fingerprints."

"Fingerprints?"

"That's right."

"We use genetic codes and DNA tracing nowadays," Brogan answered indulgently. "any particular reason in mind?"

Nichols paused to collect his thoughts. "If I tell you, I swear to God you'll think I should be fitted for a straitjacket."

Yaeger pulled off his granny reading glasses, tucked them into the pocket of a denim jacket, shuffled and stacked a pile of computer reports, then settled back in his chair and sipped from a can of diet soda.

"Zilch," he said almost sadly. "A wasted effort up and down the line. A 1,600-year-old trail is too cold to follow without solid data. A computer can't go back in time and tell you exactly how it was."

"Maybe Dr. Gronquist can determine where the Serapes made landfall after he's had a chance to study the artifacts," Lily said optimistically.

Pitt sat two rows below and off to one side from the others in NUMAs small amphitheater. "I talked to him by radio an hour ago. He's found nothing that isn't Mediterranean in origin. "

A three-dimensional projection of the Atlantic Ocean showing land folds and the irregular geology of the sea bottom filled a screen above the stage. Everyone seemed obsessed by it. Their eyes were drawn to the contoured imagery even as they spoke.

Everyone, that is, except Admiral James Sandecker. His eyes suspiciously observed Al Giordino, particularly the large cigar sprouting from one side of the Assistant Project Director's mouth as if it had grown from a seedling.

"When did you start buying Hoyo de Monterrey Excaliburs?"

Giordino looked at the Admiral with an innocent expression. "You talking to me, Admiral?"

"Since you and I are the only ones in the theater smoking Excaliburs, and I'm not in the habit of talking to myself, yes."

"Great, full flavor," said Giordino, holding up the fat cigar and expelling a gush of blue smoke. "I commend your discriminating taste."

"Where did you get it?"

"A little shop in Baltimore. I forget the name."

Sandecker wasn't fooled for an instant. Giordino had been stealing his expensive cigars for years. What drove the Admiral up the wall was that he never discovered how. No matter how well he hid or locked them away, his inventory count always showed two missing every week.

Giordino kept the secret from Pitt so his best friend would never have to lie if asked how it was done. Only Giordino and an old buddy from the Air Force who was a professional burglar for an intelligence agency knew the technicalities of Operation Stogie.

"I've a good notion to ask to see a receipt," growled Sandecker.

"We, ve been attacking this thing from the wrong angle," Pitt said, steering the meeting back on course.

"There's another angle?" asked Yaeger. "We took the only logical approach open to us."

"Without any reference to direction, it was an impossible job," Lily backed him.

"A pity Rufinus didn't log his daily positions and distance traveled,"

mused Sandecker.

"He was under strict orders not to record anything."

"Could they determine a position back then?" asked Giordino.

Lily nodded. "By positions of earth landmarks by figuring their latitude and longitude a hundred and thirty years before Christ."

Sandecker laced his hands across his trim stomach and gazed at Pitt over his reading glasses. "I know that lost look in your eyes.

Something's nagging at you."

Pitt slouched in his seat. "We've been judging facts and using guesswork without considering the man who conceived the smuggling plan."

"Junius Venator?"

"A brilliant guy," Pitt continued, "who was described by a contemporary as 'a daring innovator who struck out into areas other scholars feared to tread." The question we've overlooked is, if we were in Venator's shoes, where would we have taken and hidden the great art and litemq treasures of our time?"

"I still say Africa," volunteered Yaeger. "Preferably around the Cape somewhere up a river along the eastern coastline."

"Yet your computers couldn't make a marriage."

"They never came close," Yaeger admitted. "But God only knows how land formations have changed since Venator's day."

"Could Venator have taken the fleet northeast into the Black Sea?" Lily queried.

"Rufinus was specific about a voyage of fifty-eight days," said Giordino.

Sandecker, puffing his cigar, nodded. "Yes, but if the fleet was hit by foul weather or adverse winds, they could have traveled less than a thousand miles in that time."

"The Admiral has a point," Yaeger conceded. "Ancient ships of the period were constructed to run with the sea and before the wind. Their rigging was not efficient for willdward sailing. Heavy-weather conditions could have cut their progress by eighty percent."

"Except," Pitt said, hanging on the word, "Venator loaded his ships

'with four times their normal supply of provisions."

"

"He planned for an extended voyage," said Lily, suddenly intrigued.

"Venator never intended to land every few days and resupply his fleet."

"All that that proves to me," said Sandecker, "is that Venator wanted to keep the entire voyage as secret as possible by never coming ashore and leaving a trail."

Pitt shook his head. "As soon as the ships cleared the Straits of Gibraltar, any need for secrecy evaporated. Venator was free and in the clear. Byzantine warships sent to stop him would be as much in the dark as we are of his next course heading."