The Hydra Protocol (7 page)

Standing on one foot, suddenly off balance, he couldn’t stay upright anymore. He crashed to the floor, his head thudding on the polished wood of the deck. He could only hope the Cubans hadn’t heard him fall.

Out by the pool they were nearly done with their inspection. One of the Cubans, a young guy wearing round glasses, looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. He smacked it with the back of his fingers, and it made a noise like a snare drum.

Chapel brought his head up so he could watch. He didn’t need to—he knew what was going to happen next. The young guy was clearly the commanding officer of the Cuban patrol. He strode up to Donny and got way too close to his face.

“¿
Dónde está
Chapel, James?” the Cuban demanded.

Chapel curled up into a ball on the carpeted floor of the stairway landing. He couldn’t get up, could barely breathe. The pain had spread to every joint in his body, and it was only getting worse. He could hear people moving out on the deck, but his eyes were clamped tightly shut and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get away, wouldn’t be able to move from the spot where he lay. At any moment the Cubans would start searching the yacht and they would find him—there was no chance of his even rolling into the shadows, must less finding a place to hide.

Once they found him the questions would begin. They would want to know what was wrong with him. It wouldn’t take long for them to figure out that he was suffering from decompression sickness, and then they would want to know why he was diving in Cuban waters. They would find the little black book and he would be arrested, dragged back to Cuba, and thrown into a bottomless pit of a jail and never heard from again.

And there was nothing he could do to stop them. He couldn’t fight like this, and he couldn’t run. He tried desperately to move, to use his artificial arm—which at least didn’t hurt—to drag himself farther down the corridor, back to the top of the stairs. If he could push himself down those steps, and if he didn’t break his neck, maybe, just maybe—

Soft hands touched his head and shoulders. Fingers slipped under his chin and took his pulse. “You smell of brine,” a woman said. “We have to fix that somehow. Can you walk?”

He tried to open his eyes. Found he could just barely crack one eyelid. He saw dark hair and nothing else—he couldn’t turn his head to get a better look.

“I take it that means no,” the woman said.

The voice—he remembered it, the accent he couldn’t place. The woman in the sundress, the Asian woman he’d met with Donny and Shelly and the rest. She must have found him there on the carpet. But why? Why wasn’t she out with the rest of the partygoers, out on the main deck?

“I can’t lift you on my own, and there’s no one else to help. You have to get on your feet,” she whispered. “Please. So much depends on this.”

He had no idea what she was talking about. But he knew if he didn’t get up and get moving, he was doomed. Chapel reached down with his artificial arm and grabbed one of his ankles. His leg was curled up underneath him, his knee and ankle both on fire, but he could push the leg out straight if he didn’t mind some searing agony.

Well, he minded. He minded a lot. But he managed not to scream.

“Good,” she said. “You’re a strong guy, yes? A powerful guy. You can do this. You have to.”

He reached down and straightened out his other leg. He could just twist sideways until he was sitting up, though it felt like he was being torn in half. With his back against the wall he pushed upward from his knees. His feet slid away from him on the wet carpet, but he recovered before he fell again. Using every shred of willpower in his possession, Chapel was just able to push himself up until he was leaning against the wall, as little weight as possible on his feet.

“Here, on my shoulders,” she said, and pulled his good arm around her neck. Straightening out those muscles made Chapel want to pass out, but he forced himself to stay conscious.
Just a little longer. Just a couple more seconds
, he promised himself. “Donny’s cabin is just here,” she told him. “Move your left foot forward.”

Chapel fought to open his eyes, to see what was happening. He didn’t know this woman. Why was she helping him? Just because he was a friend of Donny’s? “You’ll get in trouble,” he said, his voice sounding weak and small even to his own ears. “Just leave me,” he told her.

“I don’t think so. Come, now, move your left foot forward. I know you can. Good. Very, very good. Now your right foot.”

She didn’t exactly carry him, but she took a lot more of his weight than he thought she could. Together they set off at a snail’s pace down the corridor.

Behind Chapel, out on the deck, someone started shouting in Spanish. Someone else shrieked in fright.

Chapel must have glanced backward.

“You’re thinking this isn’t a normal patrol, that they didn’t find us by accident, and you are right. But they don’t know who you are, only that you were missing when they demanded to see everyone on board. You can’t let them find out who you are.”

He felt his eyes widen—mostly because it hurt so much. What did she know about him? His mission was utterly secret—nobody on board even knew who he worked for, much less what he was doing here.

Questions were going to have to wait. He focused on moving his feet.

A door opened in front of him—she must have opened it. He could still barely keep his eyes open, barely see where he was. Beyond the door lay a sizable cabin, bigger than the one he had on the deck below. It had room for a little table and a couple of chairs and a widescreen television on the wall. It also had a private bathroom with a big shower stall. The Asian woman shoved Chapel into the stall and ran the water, which came out icy cold at first. Chapel shivered as the water poured down over his aching face and chest. He tried to keep his left arm out of the spray, but the rest of him was quickly soaked.

“For the salt smell,” she told him, adjusting the water temperature. “Get your trunks off. Don’t worry about modesty now. This is not the time. Get them off!”

If he hesitated, it wasn’t because he was afraid of letting her see him naked. It was because the little black book was jammed down the side of his shorts. It was the only hiding place he had.

“It hurts too much, I know,” she said. She bent down and pulled down his trunks. The little black book fell out before he could stop her. She didn’t seem surprised. Instead she shoved it into a pocket of her sundress. She wadded up his shorts and put them in a laundry hamper that was already full of wet bathing suits and towels.

“Wait,” he said. “That book—”

“Shh,” she told him. “I can hear them outside, be quiet!”

It was no use. Chapel had to focus on holding himself up and not collapsing inside the shower stall. He felt so weak that just the water pouring down on him could knock him over. He heard the Cubans out in the hall as well—he could hear them shouting, even over the roar of the blood in his ears. He heard them pounding on the door, demanding to be let in.

Then he heard the sound of wood splintering, and he knew they were breaking their way in.

The Asian woman did something then he could not have expected. She reached up and undid the strap of her sundress, then let it fall away from her body until she wore nothing but a pair of black lace panties. She balled up the dress and threw it in the laundry hamper. Then she pushed her way into the shower, sliding in under Chapel’s body, her bare breasts pressing up against his sternum.

“Put your arms around me,” she whispered.

That was when the door flew open, knocked half off its hinges. Cuban soldiers came rushing in, their guns in their hands, ready for anything. They spread out around the cabin, covering every part of it, ready to shoot anyone who moved.

Underneath Chapel, the Asian woman moaned as if she were in the throes of passion. Chapel stared at her face and saw her looking back, cool and dispassionate. She didn’t even close her eyes as she moaned again, nodding at him.

Message received. Chapel forced his arms around her, fighting the pain in his elbow and his wrist. His artificial arm wrapped around her waist, and he pulled her close. Water streamed over his silicone skin, which was bad—he was supposed to keep the arm as dry as possible—but there was nothing for it. He tried to grunt out a cry of arousal but only managed a whimper.

The door of the shower stall banged open, and a Cuban soldier stared in at them. A mischievous smile started to crack on his face, but he fought it down—the man was a professional, all right.

Behind him the young soldier with the glasses, the one in charge, peered in at the two of them. He didn’t so much as blink when he saw them like that.

For a second Chapel worried that the ruse would fail, that the man would realize the two of them were only acting as if they were aroused. But then the Asian woman turned her head to look at the Cubans and she let out a whooping screech of embarrassment that was enough to make the two soldiers step back. The Asian woman brought a hand up to her face, and her eyes went wide as saucers. And then she started giggling.

It was not a sound Chapel ever expected this woman to make. It was the sort of giggle someone like Shelly might let out if she were caught in this situation.

“Oh my God,” the Asian woman said, and her accent was gone. She sounded exactly like one of the coeds up on the deck. “Oh my God oh my God, Jimmy, there are . . . people here! Oh my God!”

The Cuban soldier who had discovered them turned beet red and turned his face away. The commanding officer still stared at them, and Chapel could see he wasn’t quite convinced.

“Did you two not hear us when we called everyone up to the main deck?” the officer asked, in perfect if accented English.

“I thought I did,” the Asian woman said. “Jimmy, didn’t I say something, I was like, like—”

“Hey, buddy,” Chapel said, forcing himself to sound normal despite the pain and weakness. “Can we at least finish before we get the third degree?”

The officer frowned. Then he addressed his soldier. “No need to search these two, I think,” he said, in Spanish. “Get their names and check their papers, that’s all.” He glanced back at Chapel and shook his head. “
Borracho pendejo,
” he muttered, and then he walked away.

The soldier, still blushing, gave them an embarrassed shrug. “May I see your passports, please?” he asked.

It was another hour at least before the Cubans finished their search of the yacht. Chapel would very much have liked to know what they were looking for, and why they had devoted so much manpower and time to investigating what was clearly just a party boat that strayed accidentally into disputed waters. He had no way of finding out, though.

It was all he could do to curl up on a bunk and try to breathe through the pain.

He only knew the Cubans had gone because Donny came into the cabin and told as much to the Asian woman. She had put her sundress back on but had sat with Chapel the whole time, stroking his back and telling him how strong he was. He appreciated the effort, but it didn’t help much. Donny came in with the news that they were headed back to Miami and that the Cubans had left them with just a stern warning. When he saw Chapel curled up on his bed, though, his eyes went wide and he grabbed the door frame as if he was having trouble balancing.

“What’s wrong with him?” Donny asked. “He didn’t drink that much.”

“He has the raptures of the deep,” the Asian woman said. “We need to get him treatment right away.”

“The raptures . . . you mean the bends? He’s got the bends? Jimmy, what the hell have you been up to?”

“Please,” the Asian woman said. “He’s in great pain. He may die!”

“Shit,” Donny said, and he ran over to kneel next to the bed. “Jim. Jim, come on, man, look at me. Look at me—you’re a ranger, man. You can get through this.”

“Oxygen,” Chapel managed to croak. The pain came in waves, and just then it was hitting a peak. He could barely move his lungs.

“He needs a hyperbaric chamber,” the Asian woman said. “There’s one in Miami. Call ahead and have it made ready. But in the meantime—”

“Oxygen,” Chapel said again.

“He’s right,” the Asian woman said. “He needs to breathe pure oxygen, to flush the nitrogen from his system.”

“We have some SCUBA tanks onboard,” Donny suggested. “I can get one up here right away.”

“That won’t work,” the Asian woman told him. “Those tanks hold only normal air, and that’ll just put more nitrogen in his blood.”

“There’s . . . there might be an oxygen tank in the medical kit—I think—”

“Go now,” the woman told Donny. “Please.”

Donny nodded and rubbed at his mouth with one hand. Then he ran off to get the tank.

Chapel turned his head to the side, to look at her face. She looked scared. He wondered just how bad he looked to make everybody so scared. “Why are you helping me?” he asked. She didn’t answer, just rubbed at his arms. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Nadezhda,” she told him. “Nadia, to my family and friends.”

A Russian name. Who was this woman? “After . . .” Chapel paused to let the pain in his joints reach a fiery crescendo. It got so bad he couldn’t see for a moment. “After that shower we took together—”

“Yes,” she said, and smiled at him. “You can call me Nadia.”

Chapel closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was gone. He must have blacked out for a while. Donny came running into the room and put a mask over Chapel’s face, and that was the last thing he remembered for a while. When he woke up again, he was on a stretcher being wheeled down the yacht’s gangplank. The sky was red with dawn. He heard seagulls and smelled diesel fuel and knew he must be in Miami. Donny was walking alongside the stretcher, holding Chapel’s hand.

The pain was just a shadow of what it had been. The oxygen must have done its job. The relief of it, of not hurting so much he wanted to die, washed through Chapel and was better than any surge of endorphins.

“You’re awake,” Donny said. “You had us pretty worried there, for a while.”