that quality on more than one occasion to more than one superior.
Pope Francis had been the worst.
They’d never seen eye-to-eye. How could they? The crazed Argentine was far more concerned with people worshiping him than protecting the faith. It is not necessary to believe in God to be a good person. What a ludicrous statement to be made by the Vicar of Christ. The traditional notion of God is outdated. How did Francis think a billion faithful would react to such nonsense? It is not necessary to go to church and give money. Really? Talk about naïveté. For many, nature can be a church. Pure garbage. Some of the best people in history did not believe in God, while some of the worst deeds were done in his name.
On that alone Francis had been right.
“Thankfully,” Chatterjee said, “you have me to aid your quest. I’ve been working on this for some time.”
News to him. “What have you learned?”
His visitor stepped close to the parapets. “Before we discuss that, there’s a matter we have to deal with.” Chatterjee pointed out to the water. “You see the black-and-red boat.”
He watched as the designated towboat pitched through the water, keeping a single parasailer aloft in the hot sirocco, which continued to sough, rising in strength and hissing across the tower.
Chatterjee waved his arms in the air.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Solving that problem.”
CHAPTER SIX
Luke heard the words solving that problem and saw one of the men on the Madliena Tower waving his arms.
Crap.
He’d been made.
He glanced down three hundred feet at the towboat and saw the attendant who’d helped him into the harness wielding a machete.
Ah, come on.
“To the man out there hanging in the air,” a voice in English said in his ear. “If you can hear me, raise your arm.”
He decided to not be any more predictable than he’d apparently already been and did nothing.
“Really?” the voice said in his ear. “I know you can hear me.”
What the hell. He raised his arm.
“Much better. Technology is such a marvel. Of course, I doubt you speak Malti, which is why I chose it up to now. I don’t appreciate you listening in on my private conversation.”
The voice carried—a British accent.
How had he been found out? Good question. He’d been abruptly rerouted from another assignment and told to fly directly to Malta, with intel on a meeting at the Madliena Tower at 1:00 P.M. today. He’d arrived yesterday, checked into a hotel, then immediately reconnoitered the locale and, while there, noticed parasailers offshore. So he’d quietly hired the boat for the next afternoon, but somewhere along the way there’d been a leak.
Big time.
“You’ll not be making any reports back to your superiors,” the voice said in his ear. “I’m told you’re with American intelligence. This really doesn’t concern the United States in any way.”
I’m told? By who?
But this wasn’t a two-way conversation.
“Here’s an interesting piece of local folklore,” the voice said. “The Maltese paint their boats in bright colors to ward off bad spirits and coax good luck. Sadly for you, the one headed your way will offer neither.”
He stared out over the water and spotted a boat, striped in bright bands of blue and yellow, racing straight for his position. He saw two men, one piloting, the other shouldering a rifle, their attention directly ahead.
At the Madliena Tower he caught another wave of arms.
The man below on the towboat stepped onto the stern platform and started hacking at the braided nylon hoist rope. Each thrust was accompanied by a troublesome vibration that reached all the way up the line. The man then stopped chopping and started sawing.
The towrope snapped.
His forward acceleration stopped and for an instant he was suspended high in the air, floating, at the mercy of the strong southern winds. The new boat with the two men swept in closer as the towboat sped away. Other boats had moved off with their parasailers.
He started to descend.
Faster than normal. No surprise. These chutes were super lightweight, loaded with venting meant for staying up, not landing soft.
The Med was approaching fast.
He wasn’t wearing boots, nor were his ankles taped for a hard landing. He wore only shorts and a shirt with tennis shoes, all bought this morning at a Valletta store. He’d brought along only a few euros, the laser ear, and keys to his rental car.
The water was less than fifty feet away.
Time to be a Ranger again.
He worked the harness, releasing the buckles, one hand over his head gripped to