The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,79
cold, utilitarian spaces of whitewashed metal walls into a warm hallway of polished teak and carpeted floors. The tinkle of a piano in the distance welcomed them. It was like crossing from the drab cornfields of Kansas into a technicolor Oz.
Before they could take more than a few steps, a waitress swept down the hall toward them, holding aloft a tray full of fluorescent drinks, several with umbrellas. She slowed when she came upon their disheveled group.
“Buonasera,” she said with a smile, then seemed to get a read on the room and switched to English. “Did you enjoy the fireworks?”
No one said anything, only gave her stunned looks.
Her smile stiffened but didn’t fade. “You should know the sail-a-way party is under way on the Cleopatra deck. Next stop—Majorca!”
She slid past them and whisked happily down the hall.
After the waitress was out of earshot, Maria turned to Gray. “What now?”
Mac answered, adding his contribution to the night’s plan, “I say we pay Cleopatra a visit. I could damned well use a drink.” He glanced to Father Bailey. “Excuse my French, Padre.”
Bailey absolved him with a raised palm. “I could also use a damned drink.”
22
June 24, 10:12 P.M. CEST
Off the coast of Sardinia
This is fuckin’ embarrassing.
Belowdecks, Kowalski stood in his cabin’s tiny bathroom, which consisted of a steel toilet with a sink built into its back tank and a showerhead sticking out of the ceiling. The floor had a drain in it. Apparently, one was supposed to close the cubicle’s door, and the entire bathroom became a shower stall.
Maybe if you were a mouse with anorexia.
The rest of his cabin was hardly any larger. It had an upper and lower bunk that folded up against the wall, like the sleeper car on a train—only smaller. But the bathroom was his nemesis. Every time Kowalski moved, his elbows struck the walls. And the rocking of the yacht made everything extra challenging. Case in point: taking a leak. He stared down at the drenched left leg of his pants.
“Doesn’t this just take the cake.”
He zipped up and cursed under his breath. Brushing past the bunk, he shuffled to the door with a jangle of his chains. He pounded his fist. “Hey! Need a little help in here.”
The yacht rocked again, throwing him sideways. They were anchored off Sardinia, where the sea was choppy. It had taken them eight long hours to cross the Tyrrhenian Sea from Vulcano to reach this port. He had managed a brief view of the place as they motored toward it just after sunset. The lights of a big city lit up the coastline. Fireworks splattered the sky above it, but from a mile out, the display appeared anemic, just little puffs of fire.
Still, he could not stop staring. The shoreline had been tantalizingly close, and the city large enough for a guy to get lost in—or a guy and a girl.
He pounded again. “Hey!”
A muffled call came from the next room. “Are you all right?” Elena asked.
He stared down at his wet leg.
We’ll see.
He hammered nonstop, until someone finally swore and the locking bolt scraped. A stocky man yanked the door open. He pointed a compact MAC-10 machine pistol at Kowalski’s chest. Another guard backed him up out in the narrow hallway with the same style of weapon, only holding his firmly with both hands.
“What you want?” the lead man barked in broken English.
Kowalski backed up a step. Standing shirtless and in his socks, he could not look like much of a threat. Still, he lifted both palms.
“I don’t want any trouble. Just need a hand cleaning up.” Keeping his arms high, he jabbed a finger down at his leg. “I don’t want to sleep like this all night.”
The guard looked down, squinted, then his eyes widened. He turned to his buddy in the hall and said something in Arabic. They both laughed themselves close to tears.
“Yeah, real funny, Chuckles. I need to get out of these, and I can’t do that in these chains.” He shrugged. “Or you can help me cut these pants off and go ask Kadir if I could borrow a pair of his sweatpants. Probably be too baggy but I’ll manage.”
The mention of the hulking brute sobered them up.
“Just unlock one of my ankles,” Kowalski said, shaking his soiled leg. “I’ll do the rest.”
“No.” Chuckles nodded toward the bathroom. “You clean while wearing on.”
“And sleep in wet pants all night?”
Chuckles waved dismissively. “Then sleep like this. In piss pants.”