Without Warning Part 7

"What is it?" shrieked Fifi, who was losing it, badly.

"I think it might have been the shark," muttered Pete, rubbing at his face. He gingerly toed a straw hat away from the mess. "Ugh. Darlin', I really think you ought to throw those shoes of yours over the side."

Fifi shook her head, disgust acid-etched into her features.

"Man, I don't wanna touch that gunk. What is it?"

Jules leaned over and peered at the toxic ooze.

"I think Pete's right," she said. "I think it used to be someone."

"What happened to them?" asked Fifi with a quavering voice.

The only answer was the hiss of the Pacific sliding past the hull a long way below them.

"How many of those things are there?" she asked, tiptoeing over to the gunwale and using a pistol to ease off her deck shoes.

"Careful you don't shoot yourself in the foot," warned Pete.

She shuddered.

"Couldn't be no worse than getting this c.r.a.p on me. What if it's like the Blob? What if I turn into that... stuff?"

Jules could clearly hear the approaching edge of hysteria in her friend's voice.

She strode over, put a steadying hand on Fifi's shoulder, reached down, and pulled off the shoe she'd been trying to dislodge, before tossing it into the sea. Some of the oozing substance ended up on her hand, but she wiped that off on her s.h.i.+rt.

"It's gross. But it's not the Blob," she said. "We'll have to clean up if they're all like this. It'll be a devilish health hazard otherwise. What do you think, Pete? How many would have been on board?"

The Australian shrugged. "Dunno, sweetheart. At a guess, a boat this size, well over a dozen, maybe even twenty, but some of them would have been cooks, bartenders, cleaners, and so on. Perhaps even a caddy. There'll be a crew manifest somewhere."

"Do you think he was on it, you know, when they got zapped?" she asked, indicating the straw hat with a nod.

Pete stared at the obscene mess on the polished deck. He looked very grim.

"The Shark? I dunno. Could have been. Unless he lent it out to someone. Or ran charters. I don't think he did, though. I read somewhere that he kept this baby very much to himself."

It did raise other, more pressing questions in Jules's mind. If it was the golfer's yacht-and the mess in front of them wasn't him-then he was definitely going to want it back. And if they had to make a run Down Under, to put some serious distance between themselves and whatever had happened to the U.S., there'd be no hiding this yacht anywhere. It would be noticed.

"I suppose we'd best have a look around then," she said. "Fifi, maybe you could find a pair of shoes somewhere."

Fifi nodded, looking sickly.

They moved farther up toward the bow.

Another pile of clothes, a uniform belonging a crew member, lay at the bottom of the steps up to the next deck, oozing the same putrescent substance.

"Man, I am so not looking forward to swabbing that up," muttered Pete.

"Maybe we should blow this off," suggested Fifi. "I really don't dig this at all, Pete. It's freaking me out. You know this is the bit in the movie where you're sitting there yelling at the screen, 'Get off the boat, you f.u.c.king dumb-a.s.ses!' "

Jules and Pete both ignored her, stepping through a doorway.

A cool curtain of chilled air washed over them. The yacht's climate-control system was obviously unaffected by the loss of the crew. It kept the interior of the boat at a perfect twenty-one degrees Celsius. A small readout just inside the hatch confirmed the fact.

Jules whistled in appreciation.

The shock of cold air hadn't pulled her up short. It was the full-blown opulence of the interior fit-out. Unlike the Diamantina, where you could never forget that you were on a small boat, Norman's yacht seemed designed to provide the experience of stepping into a grand European hotel at sea. Polished wood paneling glowed with a soft red warmth. Bra.s.s gleamed. Thick woolen carpets covered the floor. As she got over the surprise and moved on, Jules briefly caught sight of huge staterooms, lavishly furnished with antique tables and cabinets and ma.s.sive, overstuffed armchairs. Oil paintings hung from the walls wherever they turned. Here a bush scene-from Australia, she presumed. There, an enormous portrait of four white dogs. A grand staircase connected the decks above and below them, again looking as though it would not be out of place in a French palace or grand Italian villa.

Jules counted another seven piles of clothes and organic matter as they explored.

The surroundings seemed to overwhelm Fifi, who momentarily forgot her fear and disgust.

"Man, this is like a hotel or something," she said. "A real hotel, too. Not just a Motel 6. This is more like a Holiday Inn."

"In here," said Jules, leading them into a private cinema where two rows of plush royal-blue lounges faced a giant wide-screen TV. She thanked G.o.d there were no putrescent rag piles in here.

"Pete, do you think you could work some video magic?"

"Mate, there's gotta be more than five hundred channels on this thing," he said, waving a black plastic remote control at the screen. Immediately, the sound came booming up, making them all jump.

"News would be good."

"Okay, don't rush me," he said. After some brief fiddling he brought up a news service. BBC World, according to the electronic watermark in the corner of the screen.

"... broke out between riot police and residents of the largely Muslim suburb after a man was arrested for allegedly stopping cars and demanding that the occupants join in the celebrations."

"What the h.e.l.l's that about?" said Fifi.

Jules took the control from Pete and thumbed off the sound as she searched for a program guide.

"It happened last time, too."

"Last time?"

"Nine eleven."

"That's great," said Pete as the big flat Sony filled with images of burning cars and shops. "But we need to move our a.r.s.es before someone else tries to grab this boat out from under them."

Fifi, who by now had recovered from her earlier fright, shrugged and hefted her sawed-off shottie. "Let 'em try."

"Someone with more guns," he added.

Mr. Lee looked over the main controls one last time, shaking his head, sadly.

"Yes, we can do this," he said, somewhat paradoxically. "But not for long. We will need engineering johnnies, for begin."

Pete nodded. They'd just come from inspecting the lower decks, specifically the engine room, which had gleamed whiter and cleaner than any human s.p.a.ce he'd ever seen before, save for the remains of three more crew members. If you could ignore them, puddled on the floor, it was like the photos you sometimes saw of microchip plants in Taiwan. Not a speck of dust or grease anywhere. The boat was running perfectly for the moment, following a computer-controlled track to the south, but it was such a huge, complicated piece of machinery that there was no guarantee they'd be able to cope if anything went wrong. He allowed himself a little Captain Kirk moment, swiveling in the main command chair as Fifi and Jules reclined on a padded bench at the rear of the cabin. Late-afternoon light flooded in through the huge windows, bathing them all in a deepening golden glow. All in all it felt more like they were kicking back at the Bellagio in Vegas than scoping out a hijack at sea.

"We could get crew," said Pete. "I know some guys in Acapulco, and down Panama way. German w.i.l.l.y still runs out of the ca.n.a.l zone. And Stan Lusevic, and Shoeless Dan."

"Jesus Christ, Pete!" protested Jules. "Are we putting together a crew or a sheltered workshop for retired drunks and d.i.c.k pullers?"

"Yes," Mr. Lee agreed. "German w.i.l.l.y, too much drinking, too much w.i.l.l.y. Other two morons. Without shoes. No good, Mr. Pete. No good."

"Okay," he conceded. "I take your point. But Lee's also right about needing crew if we're going to be doing anything other than selling this boat off at the first safe port we can find."

Jules smiled wryly at him from deep inside the luxurious royal-blue padding of the bench that occupied the entire rear bulkhead. "Pete, I thought we were just minding this old tub for the Shark."

Pete smiled sadly and shook his head.

"The Shark's gone, baby." He spared a glance at two viscous stains on the nonslip floor where Mr. Lee had cleaned up another two pools of human ooze and empty clothing. True to form, it hadn't seemed to bother him.

"Most everyone north of here is gone for good," Pete continued. "You've seen the news. If we're lucky this'll be some kind of s.p.a.ce-monkey invasion, because at least then we'll have someone to maintain order."

"Like Planet of the Apes," said Fifi in all seriousness.

"Sure, sweetheart, if you like. But me, I reckon the universe, or merciful Allah or the Great Pumpkin or whatever, sneezed and blew the good ol' US of A right out of its a.r.s.e, which as we've seen, a lot of people think of as A Good Deal. But me, I reckon it means we're about three days away from a Hobbesian f.u.c.king meltdown."

Fifi's blank look spoke volumes for a formal education that had ended when she was only thirteen years old.

"Thomas Hobbes, darling," explained Jules. "A Brit. He invented the idea of the violent cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k, with everyone fighting each other. Like a Jackie Chan movie. Or a cage-wrestling free-for-all on the telly. You know, Smack-down or Spankdown or whatever it's called."

"Right," agreed Pete, waving his hand in the general direction of the energy wave. "That thing out there, most people won't realize it yet, but that thing has thrown us into a state of f.u.c.king nature, a war of all against all, dar-lin'. And I've been wondering whether the safest option might be to ride it out in the South Pacific for a couple of years. Island-hop. Trade a bit. Stay one step ahead of the chaos, because it's coming, believe me."

"Already here," said Lee.

"What's that?" asked Pete, spinning in his captain's chair.

Lee was standing a few feet away, splitting his attention between a radar screen and an enormous pair of Zeiss binoculars, mounted on a pivot stand, through which he'd been watching the southern horizon. He'd peer through the gla.s.ses, check the screen, and peer through the gla.s.ses again, finally grunting once, emphatically.

"Twelve miles sou'-sou'east, Mr. Peter. Three go-fast boats I see. They making over sixty knots."

"Heading?" asked Jules before Pete could open his mouth.

"Straight for us, I'll bet," said Pete in a flat, fatalistic voice.

Mr. Lee nodded. "Straight for us."

"They packin'?" asked Fifi, suddenly on her feet, shotgun in hand. "You think I should go get the worm?"

"Too far away, cannot see," said Lee.

"They're packin'," sighed Pete. "Come on," he said, pus.h.i.+ng himself up out of the chair. "It's started. And yeah, Fifi. Go break out the worm, and get your cannon too."

"Awesome."

Pitie-Salpetriere Hospital, Paris

"NO!"

The French girl's shriek was a raw, animal sound. Within it roiled pain, violation, horror, and outrage. Her face, a mask of dark, primal emotions, raged at Caitlin over the unwavering muzzle of the Glock 23. The a.s.sa.s.sin had long ago stopped counting the number of men and women whose last seconds she'd seen through crosshairs or iron gun sights, and she knew from that face that Monique's cry was not a plea for life. It was a scream of protest at what had already been taken from her. Trust and intimacy and a whole world in which Caitlin-or Cathy, as Monique knew her-was a friend, and not a liar and murderer.

A hot flush washed over her, dizzying, unexpected.

She let her gun hand fall to her side, tired of it all. And they might still use Monique to get to al-Banna.

"If you stay here you will die," she said. "Come with me right now, and you might live."

The emergency room remained a still life by Goya. The first cries of staff and patients had been silenced by the shots she'd fired into the heads of her would-be killers-or captors. As Caitlin turned for the exit a spasm of movement pa.s.sed through the onlookers, as each flinched away from the line of her gaze. One man in a white coat, a doctor most likely, took a few hesitant steps in her direction, but a shake of her head and a casual wave of the pistol in his direction arrested any further advance. Caitlin did not check to see whether Monique was following her. She knew the girl would. Walking quickly but calmly toward a set of sliding doors, she stripped off her bloodied chambray s.h.i.+rt. The white T-s.h.i.+rt underneath was stained pink, but she hid the worst of it with a black leather motorcycle jacket, lifted from the corner of a bed on which a man with a heavily bandaged head lay unconscious. It was too big for her but would have to do for now. The guns, identical models, went into a couple of zippered pockets, and she plucked the last of the sensor leads from her filthy hair. A roll of thick surgical tape from a bedside tray went into another pocket. In the last few steps she turned and walked backward, scanning the room quickly for any more pursuers. Monique was glaring at her with unalloyed loathing, but she was following just a few feet behind, victim of a type of Stockholm syndrome that Caitlin had seen and exploited many times before.

The doors closed on the Pitie-Salpetriere with a chime and the protesting grumble of old rubber wheels in dirty guide rails. Early evening had come with a hard frost, and she s.h.i.+vered inside the jacket, thankful for its warmth. Transport was her first and most urgent need, then shelter. When they were safely hidden she would contact Wales, her overwatch coordinator. Her cover was blown. Her image and the fight in the emergency room had certainly been captured on hospital security video.

"Where the f.u.c.k are we going, Cathy? What are you going to do? You killed those men. Murdered them."

Monique's tone was shrill, accusatory.

Caitlin shrugged her off, scanning the cars parked in front of the building as she hastened down the steps. A blue Renault Fuego had caught her eye, a good car, easily stolen, and as close to invisible in Paris as she could get on short notice. The front pa.s.senger-side window was open a crack.

"It's not the same," she said.

"What do you mean?" Monique demanded to know, hurrying to catch up beside her. Sirens were audible, but there seemed to be hundreds of them, the distinctive warble and wail coming from all points of the compa.s.s. The city was alive with their discordant, jangling sound. Traffic along the roads around the hospital grounds was heavy, but grinding forward in fits and starts. She could see the strobing lights of both police and ambulance vehicles in three separate places. It was impossible to tell whether they were headed in her direction.

"Killing and murdering are not the same thing. I killed them, sure. But I had good reason. That isn't murder. It's self-defense."

"Self-defense!" Monique made a grab for her arm but Caitlin slipped out of her grip with practiced ease. "You expect me to believe that! You attacked them and killed them like ... a ... machine. A thing. You are no activist. You are no surfer!"

Monique spat the last word at her.

"Well, I used to surf, but I'm also a soldier," said Caitlin. "Now get in the f.u.c.king car, if you want to get out of this alive. Those men back there, they were soldiers, too, like me. And there'll be more of them looking for us."

Caitlin retrieved one of the pistols and swung the b.u.t.t of the handle into the window, smas.h.i.+ng it open and causing Monique to jump with surprise. There were more than a dozen witnesses watching her but none made any attempt to intervene as she popped the lock. More people came spilling out of the ER doors, some of them pointing in her direction, but none made any move toward her. It wouldn't be long, however, before hospital security, or the gendarmes, or something worse turned up.

"Clock's a-tickin', Monique. Hop in."

The front seat of the Fuego was cluttered with papers, a bag of onions, and a clutch from which spilled a checkbook, iPod, cell phone, makeup, and more keys.

"Jesus Christ," said Caitlin. "Why not just get a big f.u.c.king b.u.mper sticker that says 'Steal My Stuff?' "

She s.n.a.t.c.hed a st.u.r.dy-looking steel pen from the jumble of items and used it to lever her way into the car's accessory circuits, cracking open the plastic cover beneath the wheel with a couple of violent jerks. She sensed Monique hovering outside and swept the detritus from the seat. "Just get in. We're running out of time."