of a boat he was certain was nearby. He could see it! Another claimed he would ride a dolphin to shore.
Each morning they woke to find one less face.
There was more. The violence, the depredations, the primitive evils as the men set upon one another. And then, cannibalism. Men devouring the flesh of another. There was no fire. No time to dry the strips as jerky. Just a few knives to flay a dead man—the upper arm and thigh yielded the most—the pieces eaten raw. The liver, too. It was such a knife, one with a serrated edge, that left the scar on Mattias’s arm.
And then one day—their twentieth at sea—a boat appeared. A vessel of the Italian Coast Guard. They were saved.
Ten of five hundred three.
The incident became known as The Raft of the Medusa, named after a painting Mattias had never heard of and, certainly, never wanted to see. The Medusa he had known was enough.
Five years had passed since.
In that time, he had fallen in love, started a family, found gainful employment and an occupation he enjoyed. A baker—who would have dreamed it?
So why a suicide vest? It was not jihad. Martyrdom was a word that held no meaning for him.
At his core, there was a black, festering hole. Since he’d set foot back on land all those years ago, he’d been more dead than alive. The passage of time had changed nothing. Thoughts of revenge were never far away. Over time, they had grown ungovernable, ever demanding his attention. He came from a cruel, unforgiving land, a land where words mattered little. Only actions.
So why the vest?
Because, as the sheikh had said, it was his chance to turn his suffering to the advantage of others. The world must know that there were others like him. Others with little or nothing. But people all the same. Human beings with the same hopes and ambitions and dreams as any other. They must not be forgotten.
Did a man need a better reason to wish to make a difference? By his actions, he would give those left behind hope.
And, of course, there was the money. The second part of the sheikh’s promise to him. But his soul did not wish to contemplate his sins when it had so little time left.
Chapter 66
Cannes
Simon’s route took him past Zug, along Lake Lucerne, and through the town of Altdorf—no sign of William Tell or Gessler—then into Gotthard tunnel, spitting him out in the Tessin, then skirting Lugano before entering the lake district of Northern Italy. The change upon crossing the border was marked: the roads rougher, litter strewn in the weeds, buildings run down, covered with graffiti. Past Milan, then a straight shot to Genoa and the Mediterranean, 200 kilometers per hour all the way, the Ferrari’s V-12 purring like a tiger on the prowl.
At the four-hour mark, they reached the coast. Snarled weekend traffic cost him an hour. It was nearly two when they crossed the border into France just before Menton, jumping onto the autoroute that wound through the mountains above Monaco, the Tête de Chien offering a mute greeting, before returning to the sea at Nice for the last few kilometers to Cannes.
Home again.
The villa stood at the end of a short drive off the main road. To look at, it was a modest dwelling, typical of those on the Côte d’Azur. White-washed walls, clay-tile roof, wrought-iron fixtures over recessed windows. Old, billowing pepper trees shaded the walk to the front door. Simon took the heavy ring knocker and banged twice.
The door opened. A slim, blond woman hardly old enough to drive gazed at him dully. “You called about delivering some contracts?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m Jen. Samson’s assistant. I’ll get him.”
“Do that.”
They had stopped first at the port, looking for the Yasmina, only to be told that Samson Sun was not aboard. Simon had said something about being an executive for a film studio and that he must have mixed up where they were supposed to meet. The skipper had taken one look at the Ferrari, at London in the passenger seat, and given Simon the address of where Mr. Sun was residing for the length of the festival.
Simon walked into a spacious living area: high ceilings, exposed rafters, art on the walls, sliding doors leading out to a manicured grass terrace. Beyond soft, rolling hills, the Mediterranean beckoned under a royal-blue canopy.
“Not bad,” said London.
“Not bad at all,” Simon agreed.
As they admired the view, Samson Sun entered the room with