Whispers about say it is the CIA at work. So you are back with the agency?”
“Unofficially.”
“How unofficial?”
“Well . . . actually, they’re trying to kill me.”
“Sounds like a bloody unofficial relationship, then. In fact, isn’t that the opposite of being ‘with’ them?”
“It’s a bit fucked-up, yes.”
Instantly the Englishman said, “How can I be of service?”
“Just like that? I’m in the shit, Don. You can squeeze me dry if you want. My leverage is nonexistent.”
“We’ll work it out later. You are a man of your word. Let’s just try to get you out of there.”
Court hesitated, then said, “Do you have any assets at all in the area?”
“I’ll need to make some calls. Nothing of my network, but I have colleagues in Eritrea, in Egypt. Maybe by tomorrow afternoon—”
“Negative. I can’t wait. I have to have something faster.”
Don seemed momentarily flummoxed. Court’s slightly buoyed spirits sank anew with the delay. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back again. Then he opened them.
“I do have a boat. I’m making twenty knots towards international waters.”
“A boat? Well, that’s something.”
“But the GOS Navy is on the way. I can’t outrun them.” Court gave his general coordinates to Fitzroy, who wrote them down hurriedly.
“You must try to dodge the Sudanese.”
“If I had something to shoot for, a ship or a boat or even a damn buoy to hang on to, I’d feel a lot better.”
Don said, “There should be a handheld FM beacon on board. Find it straightaway. I’ll call a friend who’s a maritime underwriter at Lloyds of London, get a list of every boat, ship, or yacht within three hours of you. If I don’t know the owner or operator of one of those ships, I will bloody well find someone who does. You go due east from your location, get out into the sea as fast as you can, as far as you can. When you’re in international waters and clear of the Sudanese, sound your distress beacon.”
“Understood. Thanks, Don.”
“Thank me later. You have a navy to outrun.” Court hung up the phone and ran back to the cockpit to speed up the engines.
FIFTY
Court found the handheld FM distress radio in the cockpit, slid it into his hip bag, and then made his way back to the helm. Here he pushed the throttles all the way forward. There was less than an hour left until daylight, and Gentry had his bow pointed right where the burnt orange sun would appear. He only hoped he’d be around to see it shine.
Suddenly the cockpit was awash in bright light. Court ducked instinctively, turned in all directions looking for the source of the blinding beam. He found it astern on the starboard side, a spotlight no more than one hundred yards away.
The twin 12.7-mm machine gun of the coastal patrol boat opened up one second later, tearing into the cockpit and ripping through mahogany and bronze and glass.
Gentry dove to the deck next to the helm, used the deeply waxed teak flooring to slide like a snake towards the stairs to the lower decks. He slid down the stairs face-first, his shoulder killing him but his fear of supersonic metal taking precedence in his priorities.
On the main deck Court waited for a short respite from the near constant fire and grabbed both rifles dropped by the dead men on the companionway. The weapons were old and poorly maintained. Court knew firing on the gunboat would be extraordinarily reckless, but not firing on it would allow it to come as close as it wanted, shine its spot on the hapless yacht, and rake its machine guns back and forth to its heart’s content until the engines stopped and the yacht sank in the black water.
Court wasn’t going to make it that easy for them.
He crawled to the bow, staying out of sight. The braying 12.7-mm guns seemed to be concentrating on the helm, the waterline, and the stern of the ship, most likely to destroy the controls and the propellers and stop the boat’s retreat to international waters, as well as to kill anyone hiding out belowdecks. But the bow was still mostly shrouded in the dark shadows of the upper saloon and cockpit, and Gentry used this to mask his movement. He flipped the selector switch on the weapon to fully automatic, lined the 81’s iron sights up on the spotlight beam, and slipped his finger into the trigger guard. In the brief pause he took to concentrate his senses before he fired,