The Wrecking Crew

CHAPTER 4

Inky-blue waters lapped against seawalls and along the length of the city’s largest dock. Glittering like a jewel in the warm Mediterranean night, the perpetually lit skyline of the grand harbor of Valletta, Malta was an ancient collection of baroque steeples and domes coupled with a rarified concentration of affluence few harbors could boast. Preparations for the Rolex-sponsored yacht race were in full swing, and the dock, wide as a three-lane highway, held the parked Bentleys and Maybachs of old money, the Ferraris and McLaurens of the more ostentatious. Each flashy supercar lay parked beside the long gangplanks before a line of custom-built megayachts. They were of every construction, flagged from Paris, Dubai, New York, Sydney, Tokyo, London, Shanghai, Venice and other farflung centers of power.

High-speed police zodiacs patrolled the harbor while bulky, humorless security officers paced the dock, discrete submachine guns folded under expensive suit jackets. Submerged lights illuminated the dark waters below, lighting the massive white-hulled queens from beneath. The dock was peaceful, quiet, and still. A few of the older guests had gone to bed, as well as a few of the early risers and the jetlagged. Though already two hours past midnight, the majority of the revelers had not returned with their entourages from an exclusive party at the extravagant citycenter Hotel Phoenicia.

The crown jewel of the collected ships gently rocked at the end of the long dock, as if every other yacht were but a court valet, and this the empress herself. Sleek lines suggested a vastly different intent of construction than the other bulbous, glitzy cruisers that surrounded it. This was not just any plaything of the ultra-wealthy; this was the Conqueror, the fastest superyacht ever constructed, a coiled spring, a loaded .357 magnum with a hair trigger. Her sleek 140-foot carbon fiber underhull gently rose and fell with the lapping waves, the moonlight glinting off the laminated strands of ultra-strong synthetics. The skin hid a true technical marvel of exactingly designed structural honeycombing, and her upper works were constructed of high-quality aluminum and ceramic composite, interrupted only by blacked-out lightweight privacy glass. Even while docked, her lines whispered sweet nothings of speed, a barely restrained surging velocity.

Clad in black diving gear, Dr. Nassiri concealed himself behind a rock jetty two hundred meters from the long dock. Jonah treaded water beside him, fussing over last-minute adjustments to the doctor’s buoyancy compensation vest.

“I told you I’d never scuba dived before,” Dr. Nassiri said.

“Yeah, well I figured you’d at least be able to put your flippers on the right feet,” Jonah said.

“Are you quite, quite certain no charter vessels will work for our mission?” Dr. Nassiri tried, but failed to conceal his anxiety.

“The Conqueror is the only ship in Malta that can outrun pirates,” said Jonah. “If I wanted to get myself shot, I would have gotten it over with in prison and saved myself a trip across the desert in a body bag.”

“So it must be the Conqueror?” repeated Dr. Nassiri.

“She’s a thoroughbred,” said Jonah. “She’s got twin Purcell engines and a TF80 diesel turbine making over 20,000 horsepower. She tops 80 knots at full speed, and the only thing faster on water is a US nuclear submarine. If the pirates catch us in that, we deserve to be caught. We need her… and she ain’t for sale.”

“She looks as if she could outrun a fighter jet,” admitted Dr. Nassiri, admiring the yacht from the distance.

A third diver surfaced in a wreath of bubbles. Youssef “Buzz” Nassiri, the doctor’s cousin, dropped the regulator out of his mouth.

“You pussies ready?” asked Buzz, glaring at Jonah.

Buzz, simply put, was a bully. He’d been a bully since he and the doctor were children, and would probably always be one. But if there was a place for bullies in this world, stealing a yacht likely was it.

Jonah ignored him, but Dr. Nassiri popped in his regulator and nodded. Just remember to breathe, he reminded himself.

The trio slipped beneath the waves, following Jonah. The American seemed even more comfortable beneath the waves than he did above, allowing himself long, lazy kicks, propelling himself forward with minimal effort. By comparison, Dr. Nassiri clawed and kicked at the water, trying to maintain his balance as he followed, dragging a large mesh dive-bag behind him.

Jonah did a long, slow barrel roll, turning belly-up to look at the surface, then flipped back again. Buzz followed closely, too closely, and Jonah aimed a sharp kick at his head, nearly knocking his facemask off.

Buzz waved his middle finger at Jonah, who shrugged in return and pretended the kick was an accident.

The underwater illumination nearest to the stern of the Conqueror flickered as the trio approached from just under the surface. Small bubbles drifted upwards through the shallow water, silently breaking as they surfaced. Jonah’s neoprene-encased hand stealthily emerged from the water, grasping the polished aluminum handrail to the stern sundeck. The wetsuit-clad American cautiously raised his head just above water. From below, Dr. Nassiri watched as Jonah pushed himself belly first onto the fine-grained teakwood deck and peeled back his wet goggles. The doctor following closely behind him.

The doctor’s pulse pounded, unpleasant quantities of adrenaline coursing through his system. He was jittery, paranoid. Strange to think his career depended on his ability to make snap decisions, to stay cool and dispassionate, and to operate with a steady hand on even the most traumatically injured patients, and yet stealing a boat unnerved him so completely.

It’s the rules, he thought. He’d always been the type of person who understood and adhered to the rules. It’s what made him successful. It’s what gave him comfort. As a surgeon, he could inadvertently allow a patient to die, abysmally fail at the repair of a wound or the removal of a tumor. But that was still within the rules. Stealing wasn’t.

After taking a moment to see if anyone had noticed his incursion, Jonah Blackwell wriggled free of his bulky air tanks and buoyancy-compensation vest, securing them in a hidden compartment underneath the deck and out of sight. He pulled a plastic Ziplock bag from his weight belt, and noiselessly dropped the lead weights onto the deck.

Wasting no time, Jonah tore open the bag, letting the squared-off polymer composite pistol inside tumble into his dominant hand. He pulled back the slide, racking a .40 caliber round into the chamber. It was a debate giving him the gun — not a debate Jonah was party to, but a debate nonetheless.

Youssef emerged from the water. Bracing his feet, Jonah reached into the water with his left hand and gripped Buzz’s forearm, pulling him onto the low deck. With more flash than necessary, Buzz rolled onto the deck, theatrically covering possible ambush points with an amphibious-modified Soviet-era bullpup rifle, complete with an integrated grenade launcher.

What a joke, Jonah had whispered to Dr. Nassiri when Buzz first proudly revealed his new toy. Is your cousin expecting underwater frogmen? Grenades for that piece of junk rifle hadn’t been manufactured since the Reagan administration.

Jonah had taken a disliking to Dr. Nassiri’s cousin from the moment they’d been introduced, despite the doctor’s glowing introduction. Buzz was ex-special forces, trained by Americans for Moroccan internal anti-terrorism and counter-insurgency operations. A real hardass, as Jonah might say.

When he’d first met Jonah, Buzz didn’t even acknowledge the American, just gave Jonah an icy so-this-is-the-fucking-prisoner look that would have not been out of place at an all-girls prep school.

Buzz stripped his neoprene hood and shed his tanks onto the slipway. He was built like his gun, squat and ugly, with almost as many scars. He’d shaved his head that morning and glared at Jonah with open malevolence, anger flashing behind his dark brown eyes.

“You fucking stupid or something?” Buzz demanded with a whisper. “I told you I was first on deck. You going to clear rooms with that plastic peashooter, you deaf Yankee fuck?”

Jonah replied with a masturbatory gesture.

“I don’t have fucking time for this,” said Buzz. He shouldered the weapon and disappeared into the main cabin.

Dr. Nassiri shrugged off his equipment. He felt quite relieved that the underwater portion of this particular plan had come to an end, despite the fact that the dangerous phase had not even yet begun.

The doctor’s large mesh diving grab bag was stuffed with two bulky shrink-wrapped cubes. While Jonah raised his head over the deck to spy on the guards, Dr. Nassiri slung the bag over his shoulder and ascended the boarding ladder and off the slipway.

Leaving the doctor behind, Jonah crept the exterior length of the ship holding a titanium dive knife, slipping the razor-sharp blade through one mooring line after another. By the time he’d reached the final thick nylon line, the massive yacht had already begun to pivot away from the dock, carried out into the harbor by the receding tide. Buzz silently joined Jonah at the bow, the best vantage point to the dock and still-inert patrol boats. Buzz gave Jonah a curt nod and took up a position, intending to stay there. Jonah shook his head in irritation.

Automatic sliding glass doors silently opened in front of Jonah. Just inside the foyer, Dr. Nassiri stashed the mesh duffle underneath a curio table and unwrapped his black Beretta. Jonah and the doctor covered each other as they moved on tiptoes across the colored marble floor of the foyer, leaving behind splotchy wet footprints.

Passing between twin faux Greek columns, they entered into the salon, scanning the dark burlwood fixtures for signs of occupancy. They passed beside the chef’s kitchen, then descended the stairs to the four unoccupied staterooms and the locked crew cabins. The owner, infamous for his all-night parties, had not yet returned. Jonah cracked the door to the crew cabin then closed it again.

Stepping into the engine room was like stepping into a space station. The compartment reserved for the massive turbine engines dwarfed every other cabin within the entirety of the vessel. It was truly the beating heart of a beautiful mechanical organism. The turbine system required endless rolls of neatly secured insulation, and a bank of computers were set aside to monitor system statistics and operations. Dr. Nassiri imagined that even at a comfortable cruising speed, the Conqueror was designed to inhale a prodigious amount of expensive high-octane fuel. Unlike the sumptuous old-world tones of the rest of the yacht, this room was pure tech.

“I have to credit the owner for this marvel,” said Dr. Nassiri.

“Yeah, but can’t say I feel much guilt for stealing it,” mused Jonah.

The doctor agreed. That morning at their hotel, he’d done a little investigating on his own. The Conqueror’s owner was a retired CEO, one of the pioneers in the practice of chopping up subprime mortgages and selling them for cheap, tanking the American economy, and nearly taking down the world with it. Still, his taste in yachting could not be denied.

Jonah stripped off his hood to reveal a sharp face, newly cut short hair, and a closely trimmed blonde beard to top his tall but still-thin, muscled frame.

“Last chance to call it off, Doc,” he said. “Ditch the guns, jump overboard, and we haven’t done anything that can’t be walked back with a sincere apology and a good lawyer.”

“Thank you for the consideration, Mr. Blackwell,” Dr. Nassiri said with a grim smile. “But my commitment to see this through remains unchanged.” He stripped off his hood as well, revealing tussled black hair that framed his dark eyes and classically handsome features.

“We’re stealing a yacht together,” Jonah said with a laugh, slapping the doctor on the back. “If that doesn’t put us on a first-name basis, I don’t know what will. Call me Jonah.”

“I suppose it goes without saying that I have much more to lose than you,” Dr. Nassiri said, intentionally refusing the familiarity.

“If you say so.”

Dr. Nassiri had known full well that his mission would likely require some bending of the rules, but he hadn’t truly come to terms with the magnitude of the criminality until he had slipped into his wetsuit and slid into the dark Mediterranean Sea. Since removing Jonah from Prison 14, the doctor had come to realize that the American was the type who figured any problem that couldn’t be solved with a sledgehammer, could be solved with two sledgehammers or a roll of det cord. Dr. Nassiri knew Jonah wasn’t a criminal, not in the traditional sense, but despite his protests, Jonah appeared quite comfortable with the criminality at hand. And the more at ease Jonah was, the more Dr. Nassiri ached to get the whole thing over with, salvage what he could of his mother’s research, find her body, and take her home. And then to return to his real life.

The doctor busied himself with his duffel, removing two massive cubes of shrink-wrapped euros. Jonah looked over his shoulder as the doctor handled the 500-euro notes, the chosen vehicle of international financial smugglers. The sum total of the Nassiri family fortune and a decade of savings, it amounted to more than a million euros.

A strange enterprise, this, thought Dr. Nassiri. Stealing a yacht while bringing enough money to charter one free and clear.

“See something you like, Mr. Blackwell?” asked the doctor, feeling Jonah’s eyes on his money.

“Yeah, I’m looking at your money.”

“It’d be easy,” said Dr. Nassiri. “You have me dead to rights with that German pistol of yours. You could end this fool’s errand right now.”

“Don’t tempt me. And the story about your mom better not be bullshit.”

The doctor sighed and stood up. Jonah followed him to the bridge, both abandoning the money in the center of the foyer.

“Go secure that cash,” said Jonah. “I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if it’s not just laying around. Oh, and your cousin? I think he’s going to be butthurt if he doesn’t get the chance to blow someone away.”

“Don’t worry about Youssef,” said Dr. Nassiri. He stuffed the Euros back in the duffel and slung it over his shoulder. “I remind you that he can handle himself, thank you.”

The doctor followed as Jonah led the way back up to the bridge. He was not disappointed in the layout of the command compartment — three leather bound racing seats, futuristic joysticks, monitors, and control panels surrounded by steep-angled windows, none of which would have been out of place on a sci-fi movie set.

Dr. Nassiri knocked on one of the side windows, getting Buzz’s attention, who then relinquished his position on deck and entered through a side door.

“We’re drifting away from the dock,” said Buzz. “It’s time to deal with the crew.” With that pronouncement, Buzz chambered a round to his ridiculous assault rifle for effect. Jonah scowled, and Dr. Nassiri joined him in the displeasure. The doctor didn’t like the idea of killing anyone, and certainly not over a yacht.

“Cousin Hassan, you take a position on the bridge,” said Buzz. “Blackwell and I will take the crew quarters one at a time. He’ll cover the door while I subdue and zip tie the crew. We’re outnumbered here — so don’t take shit. Somebody yells, somebody resists, put them down quick, move on.”

Jonah stopped paying attention and began scanning the lengthy control board, brushing against the custommilled aluminum buttons with outstretched fingers.

“Now after we take the first room, some of them may get wise and — Blackwell, am I fucking boring you here?”

There it was — the American had found whatever he’d been looking for. Jonah cleared his throat and pressed a shipwide intercom.

“Captain to the bridge, Captain to the bridge,” said Jonah into the intercom.

“Are you fucking insane?” snarled Buzz.

“What are you doing?” demanded Dr. Nassiri, horrified. This was the moment he’d dreaded — the moment when Jonah Blackwell betrayed them. It was too perfect. Dr. Nassiri kicked himself, realizing he’d allowed Jonah to set up every aspect of the operation.

“Chill out,” said Jonah. “Especially you, Buzz. Go stand in the corner and put your rifle away, you’re embarrassing yourself. Just stand there and look scary or something. And for fucks sake, lower that muzzle and don’t shoot anybody.”

Dr. Nassiri was too baffled to even react. Realizing he was now bound to Jonah’s plan, Buzz angrily lowered his assault rifle.

Jonah leaned across the control panels and picked up a pair of Leica binoculars from the dash. Looking out, it appeared that the tide was pulling them out to sea faster than he’d expected. They were now nearly a hundred and fifty meters from the dock. Security personnel milled around the empty berth, confused. Some of them waved or radioed to the patrol boats, but there was no coordination and the zodiacs had not yet mobilized after the drifting yacht.

Footsteps sounded from behind the trio. Jonah lingered on the binoculars for a few extra moments before putting them down and turning around. A befuddled captain stood in the entrance to the yacht’s bridge wearing a white terrycloth robe. His charge adrift and his bridge occupied by wetsuit-clad strangers had temporarily paralyzed his faculties. The white-bearded captain stood still at first, silent, before composing himself just enough to demand answers.

“What is this?” he shouted. “Who are you people?”

Jonah plastered a giant smile on his face and walked up to the captain.

“We’re from Global Repossession,” said Jonah, openly grinning as he gave the bullshit story. “So nice to meet you, Captain…?”

“Robinson.”

“Captain Robinson, a real pleasure. Always wish it was under different circumstances. I’m Jonah Blackwell, and I’d like to introduce you to my team, Hassan and Youssef Nassiri, the two gentlemen behind me.”

Jonah snuck a glance to see how the doctor and his cousin would react to the use of their real names. He was not disappointed; Dr. Nassiri’s was rigid with utter horror and Buzz looked angry enough to snap Jonah in half where he stood.

“Now I don’t know if you’re in the loop on this,” continued Jonah, “but the owner of this vessel is about eight months behind on payments, forcing the Royal Bahamian Bank to issue a repossession order. They subcontracted the job to Global Repossession, my employer.”

“But—” sputtered the captain.

“Nobody told you? Well, I’m afraid that’s more the rule than the exception, captain. As I’m sure you’re aware, once I’ve taken position on the bridge with a valid repossession order, I’ve established mastership of this vessel.”

“This cannot—”

“I think you’ll find all the paperwork in order,” said Jonah. He reached inside his wetsuit and produced a thick stack of soggy, dripping, illegible paperwork and slapped it on the chart table. The captain looked as if he’d just been handed a soiled diaper. He grimaced as he picked at the water-soaked documents with two pinched fingers.

“All is in order?” asked the captain, reluctant to examine the documents himself.

“Subcontracting agreement, mastership order, ship’s papers with updated ownership and licensing documentation, the works,” answered Jonah.

“Well…,” Captain Robinson said, begrudgingly resigning himself to the inevitable.

“The good news — well, not good news for the owner, but good news for you — is that the Royal Bahamian Bank has already found a potential buyer out of Dubai. This goes down smoothly and there’s a good chance you’ll be retaining this post. If you’re interested, of course.”

“I suppose—”

“But short-term, we’ve got a situation to deal with. I need the crew dressed and at muster stations in five minutes. I need everybody on the ships’ launch and back in Malta. I’ll take the Conqueror to Gibraltar to work out the last of the paperwork. Hopefully we can smooth things out to fly the crew there to meet the new owners. Sound like a plan?”

The captain crossed his arms, uncrossed them, and crossed them again.

“It’s your bridge, Captain,” said Jonah. He saluted the captain, standing at attention, waiting for him to act. Dr. Nassiri and Buzz awkwardly followed, botching the salutes in their haste. Jonah quickly motioned for the cousins to put their hands down. Dr. Nassiri complied, embarrassed.

The captain sighed, adjusted his terrycloth robe, and stepped up to the control panel. The moment his back was turned, Jonah rested his palm on the pistol. Dr. Nassiri had the distinct impression the American was ready to club the captain should he raise an alarm.

The captain stepped up to the intercom, switched the knob to general broadcast.

“Crew of the Conqueror, crew of the Conqueror, this is a general alarm,” he began.

Jonah silently unholstered the pistol, preparing for the unexpected. He hesitated, waiting to hear the captain’s next words.

“Please muster at the rear launch. Wear your emergency gear and bring all personal effects and medications necessary for the next seventy-two hours.”

Jonah reholstered and concealed the gun, both he and Dr. Nassiri sighing in relief. Buzz still looked like he could pop a blood vessel.

“Sorry I can’t allow you to pack larger bags,” said Jonah. “Can’t have the crew taking the silverware, can we? I promise we’ll catalog everything and get it to the owners. I will personally supervise the process to make sure it gets done right.”

“This isn’t the first yacht I’ve had repossessed from underneath me,” said the captain. “I understand you can’t just have us walk away with all the table settings and artwork.”

“Well, maybe a few spoons,” cracked Jonah. Both he and the captain shared a congenial laugh.

The captain exited the bridge and went below. Jonah and Dr. Nassiri looked at each other.

“So you think he believes it?” whispered Dr. Nassiri.

“As long as he doesn’t look too closely at the documents I gave him,” mumbled Jonah. “Stay on the bridge. I’m going to supervise the exit of the crew.”

On the rear deck, the well-trained crew collected by the ship’s single launch boat. Several stewards, two cooks, the engineer, and officers prepped the craft for deployment. The vessel would be crowded but serviceable. Twenty-two feet of carbon fiber and polished aluminum, she was custom-designed to complement her mothership. The crew of the Conqueror boarded and Jonah began the automated launch sequence. Two large winches slowly rose from their hidden compartments in the deck, lowering the lifeboat over the side and into the ocean by two thin woven-steel cables.

The now-former captain of the Conqueror unrolled the soggy documents into his hands and absentmindedly examined them. He started slowly at first, and then rapidly, angrily shuffled through the papers.

“These… these… are menus!” he shouted at Jonah from across the narrow chasm.

Jonah pressed the emergency release and the tender dropped the last four and a half feet into the waves, knocking every crewman to the deck as the launch splashed down in the ocean. Jonah sprinted back to the bridge, took the center console and began the engine startup sequence.

“That was somewhat brilliant,” said Dr. Nassiri grudgingly as he took the chair to Jonah’s left.

“Yeah, never steal something with a gun that you can steal with paperwork,” said Jonah. “Buzz, how are we doing here?”

Buzz peered through the Leica binoculars and looked at the dock. “It’s getting busy,” he said. “A yellow Lamborghini has arrived at the Conqueror’s berth. Looks like the driver is doing a lot of pointing and shouting.”

“That would be the owner,” said Jonah. “He always had a thing for Italian supercars. And shouting.”

Dr. Nassiri picked up a second pair of binoculars and took a look for himself. “Is he supposed to be that orange?” he asked, referring to the former CEO’s obnoxious fake tan.

“You’re the doctor, you tell me.”

“Security personnel are boarding the patrol boats,” said Dr. Nassiri. “I believe it is likely that the captain has radioed for assistance.”

“We’re running out of time,” added Buzz with a snarl. “This wouldn’t be a problem if they were all zip tied below decks.”

“Still not a problem,” said Jonah. “I just have to bypass the security lockout.” His fingers danced across the console, pulling up systems schematics across the screens. “Too bad… I really wanted to see the expression on his face when I stole his boat.”

“I assure you, its quite apoplectic,” said Dr. Nassiri dryly. Neither one of the Nassiri cousins could tear their eyes away from the binoculars and the mobilizing security forces.

The engines sputtered, turned over, and stopped.

“Shit,” said Jonah. The computer had locked him out again and automatically cut the engines. He tried pushing through another subroutine, searching for a back door into the core systems.

“We are now dangerously low on time,” said Dr. Nassiri. “Are you certain you can do this?”

“I can do this,” said Jonah through gritted teeth. There it was — the software back door. The console in front of him lit up like a Christmas tree, a thousand individual indicator lights flicking to life at once. The engines roared, nearly knocking Buzz over as the entire yacht jolted forward. Jonah throttled up, breathing life into the massive machine. She was a thing of beauty, surging forward, slowly at first, the powerful engines kicking out a churning wake almost as long as the ship herself. The patrol boats were blinded by the spray, knocking into one another behind the speeding yacht.

Dr. Nassiri clapped a hand on Jonah’s back, smiling with the pure pleasure of escape and success — and relief. Jonah couldn’t help himself. With his hand on the tiller of the most beautiful ship he’d ever had the pleasure of stealing, he grinned from ear to ear.

The indicators passed fifty knots, then sixty, before topping out almost to eighty. Even the untrained ear could hear the engines singing in beautiful harmony and rhythm, perfectly tuned, precisely attenuated for the task at hand. The howling engines drowned out all else but the starry night sky as Malta disappeared behind them.

“So tell me, what did you have against her previous owner?” asked the doctor.

“That’s a story for another day,” answered Jonah.