THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller (38 page)

“I think he will. With any luck, we’ll get permission to mobilize a team of Rangers. Be on La Palma by sunset, maybe earlier. I’m sorry, John. I wish I had better news for you.”

Decker turned and looked at Swenson. He took her by the hand. “I’m glad we have this time together,” he said, trying to smile. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

He began to speak with her in low and measured tones, his mouth only a few inches from her ear. Voices carried unpredictably on airplanes. She slumped down in her chair, leaning further into him. He told her everything: about the suspects they’d been watching in Queens; about the wallpapers; the bombs in Israel; about Moussa and Ali Hammel; about El Aqrab and what probably awaited them on the island of La Palma.

When he was done, Swenson did not speak for a long time. She simply sat there, sipping her water directly out of the bottle.

“I’ll completely understand if you want to stay in Madrid instead of flying on to Santa Cruz,” continued Decker. “In fact, it’s what I would advise.”

“What if we’re too late?” she finally offered up, in a whisper, almost at no one in particular. “What if you’re right and El Aqrab is there, and he sets off that nuclear device?”

Decker shook his head. “Then the world will never be the same. There’s no way to stop a mega-tsunami once it starts, right?”

Swenson looked out the window. “Not according to Newton. I don’t see how. How do you dissipate five thousand trillion joules of kinetic energy? Unless . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

“Unless what?”

She shook her head, continuing to stare at the glistening sea below. “No,” she said. “There is no way.”

Thursday, February 3 – 10:05 AM

La Palma
, The Canary Islands

Decker and Swenson arrived in La Palma via Madrid in the late morning. A local policeman named Juan-Antonio de la Rama met them at the airport in Santa Cruz. A willowy dark man with a drooping mustache and agreeable face, de la Rama informed them, in a thick Spanish accent, that Otto Warhaftig’s fellow operatives – Thompson and Strand – would be rendezvousing with them later on that afternoon. They had been called away at the last moment.

Decker and Swenson rented a silver Citroën Saxo and followed de la Rama into Santa Cruz. With only eighteen thousand inhabitants, the city lay on the east coast of the island, on the slope of a mountain, within the amphitheater of a long-extinct volcanic crater called La Cadereta. The road from the airport skirted the sea and there were modern buildings alongside large old houses with massive covered wooden balconies jutting from their sides. Decker and Swenson were both flabbergasted by the height of the volcanic ridge that ran the length of the island, north to south. La Palma seemed to be rushing upwards toward the sky. Banana plantations, many surrounded by wind walls, covered every inch of the steep slopes.

The Parador Hotel was only a few hundred yards from the sea. It seemed oppressively dark inside the lobby; but, perhaps, that was just in contrast to the brilliant sun outside. A solitary clerk stood behind the front desk. He was no more than a boy, really, barely a teenager, and wore an ill-fitting forest green uniform with oversized epaulettes. Decker inquired politely about the missing Doctor White in Spanish but the pimply youth did little more than shrug. He was too busy sorting mail with his long fingernails. He shrugged and shrugged, and moaned about the Doctor’s unpaid bill, his overbearing friends, and how – in accordance with posted policy, no matter how regrettable – they’d soon be forced to give away his room. Swenson whipped out a credit card.

Decker continued to pepper the clerk with questions as the boy ran the card. When exactly had the scientist disappeared? Had he been seen with anyone during his stay? Had he given them his own credit card, or had someone else pre-paid? The boy didn’t seem to know very much until Decker handed him a twenty Euro bill. Then he perked up. He passed the credit card back to Swenson and vanished through a small door in the back. A moment later, he returned with a large envelope and handed it to Decker.

Decker tore it open. It was the fax from Warhaftig. It had come in an hour earlier. The document featured background information on Jamal ben Saad. Apparently, the man sent to Ansar II and the author of the book on Arabic architecture were indeed one and the same. Or had been. Jamal had disappeared soon after the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in ’82. According to the fax, his father – the wealthy entrepreneur Hanid ben Saad – and younger brother Ibrahim had collaborated with the Israelis; they’d handed over information about Amal and Syrian installations prior to the invasion. Hanid ben Saad, his wife and son Ibrahim were subsequently killed by Amal in a car bombing. Jamal ben Saad was later arrested by the Israelis but he only spent three days at the Ansar II prison. Then he was released. No charges were filed against him. The Mosad suspected he was killed by Amal like his father and mother and brother. No, that was wrong. Hanid ben Saad’s wife, A’isha, was not Jamal’s biological mother. His natural mother, Rabi’a, had drowned when he was ten – a suicide. Although no note was found, they did discover a bottle of sleeping pills inside her purse. Apparently she’d been depressed for months. The fact that Jamal had only spent three days in Ansar II undoubtedly marked him as a collaborator like his father and brother. But his body was never found. Of course, Lebanon had been in chaos in those days. A missing corpse was hardly unusual.

Swenson finished paying the bill and she and Decker headed toward the elevator. Decker wanted to examine White’s room. It was on the third floor, facing the main thoroughfare. Decker pressed his ear to the door for several seconds before entering with the passkey. The room featured a queen-size bed draped with a light blue quilt, a bit tatty, somewhat stained. There was a tiny writing desk in one corner, and a dressing area. The bathroom was not very big. It did, however, include a small bath, and an even smaller shower in one corner by the sink. A pair of French doors faced the wooden terrace that ran along the length of the facade of the hotel.

Decker began to search the writing desk. His back was to the terrace, and there was no way that he could have seen the figure passing right behind him. But Swenson did.

She screamed – just as the French doors burst apart, as Decker turned and the stranger leapt onto his back. They rolled across the floor. Swenson screamed again. Decker took a right cross to his chin. Then somebody punched his stomach. There seemed to be two men now, or three. They swirled around him, held his arms. Decker dropped to the floor. He swung his right leg out and one of his attackers went down. He wore a soft blue cable-knit sweater. His hair was rather long. Decker reached out and grabbed it. He pulled, and there was the neck, and he came down on it with an elbow strike. The blow shook the stranger to the core. Decker stared about the room. Swenson was gone. She had been there a moment ago. Now she was nowhere to be seen. Another man stood on the balcony. He was looking at his friend on the floor. Decker leapt up like a predator, feeling the blood pulse in his veins, feeling his lips curl as he raced across the room.

The stranger started running down the terrace. He’d only gone about ten yards when he came to a sudden stop, jogged left, and disappeared into another room. Decker started after him. In just four steps, he was standing by the French doors where the other man had disappeared. He didn’t hesitate. He leapt into the room. He rolled and locked his knees. The room was empty. The man was gone.

Decker spun about. He spied the bathroom door. It was ajar. He stared at it and felt the hair stand upright on his neck. Someone was in there. Decker could sense him. With a kind of snarl, he leapt across the room, drawing his gun, kicked the door and fired as the door sprang back. There was the sound of shattering glass. The man with the gun before him looked familiar. Too familiar. He lowered his weapon. Glass shards tumbled to the floor as the full-length mirror on the wall gave way. He’d shot himself.

Decker pulled back, just as another bullet split the doorframe by his head. He turned and fired two quick shots. They puckered the shower curtain. And then he saw the bloodstained hand.

It clasped the curtain at the top, it pulled and the curtain gradually gave way, one ring at a time. The man struck the bathroom floor with a dull
thwack
, directly on his face. There was an unnatural stillness as he bounced and settled. He was already dead. The bullets had found their mark.

Decker heard a car start. It was so loud it sounded as if it were parked in the next room. He dashed out of the bathroom, lunged toward the terrace, and there it was. An off-white two-door. A Renault. It was skidding from the lot. Even from this height, Decker could plainly see the pale outline of Emily’s head framed by the window, her blonde hair waving, that terrified expression through the glass.

Decker raced back through the door, bounded downstairs, and was out in the open parking lot in seconds. He jumped into his Citroën Saxo rental. He started her up and crawled out of the lot. Eventually, as he descended a small hill, the Saxo picked up speed. He followed the narrow road. It ran outside the city, due south, and started up the mountain valley. It wound its way across a hill, then up again, beginning a harsh ascent of the volcanic walls. Decker saw the sea wink in the distance, far below.

He climbed and climbed around volcanic outpourings, round rings of magma, rotund as love handles on the mountainside. The road began to zigzag dangerously, round bends and hairpin turns, meandering, round oxbows and capricious straight-aways that gave up suddenly, only to turn again, and down, and round. That’s when he saw it in the distance, the other car.

It was a Renault, after all – a Clio; some model he’d never heard of. Then it vanished around the bend. Decker stepped on the accelerator. He leaned forward toward the steering column, straining his eyes. There it was again. He pressed the accelerator to the floor until the Citroën whined. He was gaining on them. He could see Emily’s hair, like spun gold, gleaming through the window. It was then he heard the motorcycles.

The first shot swept across his windshield, shattering the glass, and covering him with tiny flecks that looked like diamonds in the brilliant February light. He shook the shards out of his eyes. The wind blasted his face. He heard the sound of his own engine screaming. The wind was shockingly cold considering they were off the coast of Africa. It numbed his skin.

Decker shook his head. He ducked just as the second volley coursed across the cab. The other windows of the Saxo shattered. Now wind swept in from every side. Decker could barely see. Some of the glass had gone into his eyes. They felt like they were on fire.

The car swerved to the side and he saw the guardrail just too late.

The Saxo struck and bounced and jumped back on the road, almost instinctively. He pressed ahead at breakneck speed. For a brief moment, Decker felt invincible. He turned around just as a BMW
Rockster barreled into view.
A man in a bright red leather suit, holding a machine gun, angled by. He opened up on Decker’s car and the Citroën throbbed. Decker held his breath. He looked about. Miraculously, he wasn’t hit. The wheels still rolled. The engine still pulsed with life.

Decker squeezed the steering wheel. He saw the distant sea below, the road diminishing. He skidded left and struck the 1150 Rockster squarely on the side. There was a thump – quite silent really, surprisingly subtle – and the
motorcycle
disappeared from sight behind a bush, only to reappear a moment later, spiraling skyward through the air at one hundred and twenty miles per hour. The motorcycle rolled and rolled, then finally tumbled out of sight, just as another volley tore the roof off in a burst of light.

Decker ducked. He couldn’t even see the road; he drove from memory. He turned the wheel and another volley ripped the headrests into pieces. There was nothing left. Decker lifted his head and the wind scratched at his face like a cat. The top of the car was completely gone. He felt as though he were driving a jeep.

He looked to his left and saw the distant ocean twinkle. He was straddling a cliff. The water glistened several hundred feet below.

Decker turned and saw a stream of bullets traveling toward him in what appeared to be slow motion, like a swarm of bees, or a school of minnows swimming underwater. He saw the individual bullets, the single stray that tumbled suddenly, and struck him in the arm, and ripped that small filet of flesh out of his bicep with a strident
twang
– like the breaking of a violin string. Decker gritted his teeth.

He turned and saw the second motorcyclist. He was right behind him, dressed in same red leather jacket and red helmet. He was aiming his black gun.

Decker stomped on the breaks. The car squealed and slowed as he downshifted, stripping gears.

The second Rockster hit the rear of Decker’s vehicle, climbed up upon the bumper, then the trunk. The rear tire of the BMW still rolled along the road, but the front was stuck now, in the back seat of the car! Decker could hear the
two-spark, 1150 boxer engine
roaring right behind him.