Targets of Revenge (18 page)

“No, in fact I thought we might find time to have a private discussion about business, but you have me at something of a disadvantage here. Since you asked for candor, I’ve provided it.”

Sudakov gave his head a slow, deliberate shake. “Mr. Sandor, I don’t know who you really are or who you think I am, but you have made a serious error in judgment.”

“Nothing that we can’t repair, I hope.”

Sudakov studied him for a few moments. “That remains to be seen. For now I suggest you return to your cabin. My two friends here will show you the way so you won’t need to retrace your indirect route.” On cue, the two bodyguards got to their feet, so Sandor also stood. “We have gotten off to a bad start, but perhaps you are right, perhaps it can be repaired. We are diving in the morning, you should get some sleep.”

The two large men came toward him. One of them pointed to the door. “Time to go,” he said, his accent thick and his voice stern.

As Sandor turned to leave, Sudakov added, “I must confess, at this point I will sleep better if you relinquish your weapon. It will be returned to you tomorrow, of course.”

“Of course,” Sandor said, but as he reached for his pocket the man on his right grabbed his wrist with a backhand maneuver that was surprisingly fast and uncomfortably tight. Without a word the second man reached in and pulled out the gun. “I don’t let just anyone put their hand in my pocket,” Sandor said, “at least not on the first date.”

No one laughed.

————

Lilli was still sitting up on his bed when Sandor was shown into his cabin by his two escorts. When they shut the door behind him he
listened, but there was no sound to indicate they had been locked in. Having taken his automatic and with surveillance cameras all over the ship, there was no need.

“So?” she asked.

There was no reason to tell her anything. He said, “It’s been a long night. Let’s get some rest.”

Then he turned out the lights. Whatever happened in the dark would happen in the dark.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Sandor rose, showered, and dressed well before sunrise, then had Lilli get ready. When she emerged from the shower wrapped in a large Hermès bath sheet, he sat her on the edge of the bed and leaned over, whispering in her ear one more time. “Once I leave, you’ve got to get off this yacht.”

“Can’t I wait for you to come back?”

He shook his head. “I’m not coming back. And these people do not leave loose ends. They will want to know what we discussed, anything I told you. I want you to tell them anything and everything I said.”

Lilli appeared puzzled. “But you haven’t really told me anything. Except that I should be afraid of them.”

Sandor pursed his lips, as if about to say something, then thought better of it. “Tell them that.” He drew back and looked into her nervous, aquamarine eyes. After a moment he leaned toward her again. “Just repeat for them anything I said. The point is to get off this boat and out of Sharm el-Sheikh. You understand me? And I mean to get off as soon as possible.”

She said she would, though she admitted that she still did not understand why.

A short time later the yacht’s entourage was served an early breakfast on the rear deck. They were seated at a racetrack-shaped table large enough to accommodate thirty people and sturdy enough to support a brass sculpture in the center that looked to weigh half a ton.
Sudakov was seated at the head of this enormous expanse of polished mahogany, nearest the stern, accompanied once again by the two brawny escorts who had shown Sandor to bed. Sudakov was an early riser, and not a man to be kept waiting, so he had seen to it that everyone was up just after dawn. He appeared to be in very good spirits and Sandor gave the man high marks acting as if nothing had transpired between them just a few hours before. His men, on the other hand, were far less convivial, some of which Sandor chalked up to his nocturnal wandering, some to their hangovers.

As for the women, they wore that look young women tend to have the morning after a night of too much wine, too much revelry, and too much of whatever else it was they had indulged in, particularly when they did not have the time necessary to recover their bearings and put themselves back together. The girls had been obliged to dress quickly, hair piled on heads and held with clips or pulled back in ponytails, their makeup not as carefully applied as it had been the night before.

Either that or the sunlight was not as favorable as the moonlight had been.

Sandor thought Lilli looked just fine, and he said so. He also announced that Lilli was interested in a small shopping spree in town while he was diving. He said that he would fund the expedition.

“Sounds delightful,” Sudakov said with a knowing smile. “All of the girls should go into town and pick up some new things for tonight, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Sandor agreed.

The women voiced their excitement at the prospect.

“Consider it done,” Sudakov announced. “And I will be the one financing the venture, I insist. I will see to everything myself.”

Sandor could feel Lilli’s gaze bore into the side of his head, but all he did was smile at their host and say, “Perfect.”

————

While Sudakov and his guests were finishing their eggs and croissants, two of his men were belowdecks, filling the four scuba tanks that would be used for the dive that morning.

A standard air tank mixture is 21 percent oxygen and 78 percent nitrogen, the balance made up of inert gases. Changes in that combination, or the introduction of other substances, could become dangerous. Or fatal.

A tank low on air would not guarantee death. No matter how deep the diver went there was always the chance he could jettison his pack and make it to the surface once he discovered his supply was spent.

A nitrogen-rich mixture would ensure a fatality but the postmortem would reveal it had not been an accident—an autopsy would disclose the unusually high concentration of nitrogen in the lungs.

Loading a tank with pure oxygen was far more cunning. A diver would not be able to discern any problem at the start of the dive, but in less than a half hour at 45 psi or more—just one hundred feet or so below the surface of the water—the pressure in his lungs caused by the pure oxygen would cause a seizure without warning, and death was assured. The postmortem would be unlikely to disclose anything to suggest foul play. As the diver convulsed, his tank could be removed and dropped to the floor of the sea with extra weights, the evidence of tampering effectively destroyed.

Oxygen was the smart move.

Sudakov’s men loaded one of the four tanks with pure oxygen, placed a small blue appliqué on the metal cylinder, then went about organizing the other equipment.

It would not be long now.

————

Less than twenty minutes later Sandor stood on the platform that hovered just above sea level at the stern of the
Odessa,
watching as the dive boat came about. A lithe young woman in a black one-piece bathing suit tossed out a bowline from the dive boat. One of Sudakov’s crew caught it and tied it off on a transom cleat as the girl dropped white rubber bumpers over the side.

The boat appeared to be about thirty-six feet long with twin outboards. It was piloted by a dark-skinned Egyptian who looked to be about sixty, wearing khaki shorts and a tropical shirt in a loud print
featuring silk screens of palm trees and coconuts. He killed the engines, climbed forward, and jumped up to the platform.

“Morning,” he said with a wide smile that revealed a set of uneven teeth.

The man standing beside Sandor issued a grunt in response, then held out a hand and helped the girl onto the platform.

“I am Captain Sadiki,” the Egyptian told them. “Everyone ready to go?”

As if on cue, the two men who had been in the equipment room emerged through a door to the starboard side of the transom. They were carrying four tanks, fins, regulators, wetsuits, weight belts, and other diving paraphernalia.

“Seems you won’t be needing our equipment,” the captain said with an unmistakable hint of disappointment in his voice.

Sudakov stepped forward. “Not a problem captain,” he said. “We prefer to use our own equipment, but we have agreed to your rate.” Then with a chuckle he added, “Do I look like a man seeking a discount?”

“You certainly do not,” the captain replied with his own laugh, obviously relieved that he had not carted tanks out here only to be chiseled on his fee. He took the hand Sudakov extended, gave it an energetic pump, then climbed back into his boat.

As Sandor watched the gear being loaded, Sudakov moved beside him. “A beautiful day to be on the water, is it not?”

“Or under it,” Sandor said. He was wearing a new Vilebrequin bathing suit and crisply pressed white tee, both on loan from his host. He turned to Sudakov, who was still in the black gabardine slacks and cotton polo shirt he had worn at breakfast. “A bit overdressed for this adventure, aren’t you?”

Sudakov offered him an indulgent smile. “Unfortunately I cannot join you. A childhood injury to my ear prevents me from diving. A pity.”

“It certainly is.” Sandor returned his attention to the young woman to whom the Russians were passing the diving gear. He was far less interested in the girl than the four steel air tanks she was handling. They were all made by the same manufacturer, identical in size and markings.

“I envy you the experience,” Sudakov was saying, “but I look forward to the stories you’ll have to tell when you return.”

Sandor turned back to the Russian. “And I certainly look forward to seeing you again.”

“Good. You all enjoy yourselves,” he said, slapping Sandor on the back.

The women on the yacht were above them, leaning over the railing on the rear deck, jabbering about their upcoming excursion to the shops in town at Sudakov’s expense. Lilli, however, was watching Sandor without speaking.

He looked up and smiled at her. “And you be sure to enjoy your little shopping spree.”

She nodded.

“Of course she will,” Sudakov assured him as he witnessed the unspoken exchange between Sandor and the girl. “We’ll take good care of her.”

“I hope so,” Sandor said, looking directly into the Russian’s cold blue eyes. “I really hope so.”

————

When Sandor boarded the dive boat he was not surprised to discover that his companions on this excursion would be three of Sudakov’s men.

“They love to dive,” Sudakov called out to him, answering the question that had not been asked.

Sandor looked up from the deck of the smaller vessel. “Can’t convince you to just come along for the ride, can I?”

The Russian shrugged, then pointed to the girls and flashed a smile. “Business before pleasure.”

Sandor nodded. “Till we meet again, as they say.”

“Till then.”

————

Captain Sadiki’s destination for the dive was beyond the sandy island in the national park known as Ras Mohammed. A nature preserve off the tip of the Sinai Peninsula, it is a popular location for underwater
explorers and snorkelers alike. As they got started Sandor moved forward and stood beside the captain.

“Nice boat,” he said as Sadiki navigated his way across the deep, calm waters.

The Egyptian said nothing.

“Beautiful day for a dive.”

That earned him an indifferent nod.

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

Now the swarthy face turned toward him. “No,” the captain said, his unblinking gaze holding Sandor’s for a moment, then letting it go as if dismissing an unpleasant thought.

“Well then,” Sandor replied, “I’ll try to keep my questions to a minimum.” He made his way aft, where the young woman was organizing the equipment. “Good morning.”

That earned him the first smile he had seen since he came aboard.

“Ah, a friendly face.”

“You probably found that my uncle is not very sociable.”

“Your uncle? Yes, I noticed. Seemed a lot happier when he came aboard the yacht.”

“He’s always nice to the people who pay him.”

Sandor laughed as he extended his hand. “I’m Jordan.”

She took his hand, said, “I’m Nadia,” then went back to work.

“This unusual?”

“What?” she asked over her shoulder.

“People bringing their own tanks and scuba gear?”

She stood and looked at him, her lower lip jutting out as if this required some thought. “Most tourists rent from us. But some of the bigger yachts have their own equipment.”

He waited, knowing that sometimes saying nothing is the best way to evoke a response.

Nadia hesitated, then added, “Wealthy people tend to do things their own way.”

Sandor nodded. “Your English is perfect.”

“I studied in London,” she explained. With the roar of the twin engines, their conversation could not be heard by the others aboard. Even so, Sandor noticed that the captain had given her a quick, disapproving
glance. “I need to get this done,” she said, then knelt down and returned to sorting out the equipment.

Sandor could feel the three Russians watching him as he crouched beside her. “I’m curious. Is there any real advantage in using your own equipment? I mean, I assume you do this almost every day. I’d think it would be safer with you preparing things.”

When she turned back to him he thought he detected a change in her demeanor. “I’m sure these tanks are fine.”

“Just the tanks?” he asked.

When Nadia fumbled for a reply, he held up a hand. “Only kidding,” he assured her. “I’m just getting in your way here. Let me give you a hand.”

Before she could utter a protest Sandor grabbed one of the tanks and stood it in the hard plastic rack along the railing. By the time he had moved the second canister she took hold of his wrist.

“This is my job,” she said quietly. “You’re a guest on our boat, and my uncle will be upset if . . .”

“No need to explain,” Sandor said as he stood. “I understand completely. I’ll let you get back to work.” Then he turned to the three Russians, who were seated along the port rail, gave them a brief wave to which they offered no reaction, then climbed atop one of the starboard lockers and sat down.