False Dawn

27

The freighter stayed wide of Fowey Rocks and came up along Key Biscayne. I caught sight of the lighthouse at Cape Florida just as the sun was setting. Music blared from the outdoor bandshell at the marine stadium, and a score of boats skimmed across the bay and into the open water. By the time we crossed Government Cut between Fisher Island and the southern tip of Miami Beach, it was dark, and the water was crowded with boats angling for good views of the fireworks. Offshore, half a dozen freighters and a cruise ship lined up, waiting for tugs to take them into port in the morning.

The two crewmen with sidearms had been my shadows for the past three hours. One stayed on each side of me wherever I went, except to the head, where one went in, and the other stayed outside the door.

“Want to hold it for me?” I asked the one who ventured inside.

“ No comprendo.”

“You guys flip a coin, and you won, is that it, Jose?”

“ Mi nombre no es Jose.”

I returned to the deck, and the two crewmen followed. I can understand a little Spanish if it’s spoken slowly. From the guy who wasn’t Jose and his friend who was Xavier, I learned that tomorrow’s edition of Granma, the Party newspaper named after Fidel’s boat, would carry the story of our heroic act, including the names of all the martyred crew members. Mine, too, I guess. My footnote in history. So these bozos were trading their lives for a half-inch of newsprint.

“I want to reason with you two,” I said to Xavier. “This is pointless. Ridiculous. Estupido! ”

They exchanged looks and shrugged. I heard footsteps on metal stairs. In a moment, Lourdes appeared and walked quickly to me. On the deck, crewmen were preparing her lifeboat. The gray haze of dusk was backlit by a fiery pink glow to the west as the sun dipped into the Everglades.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I know what you think of me, Jake. Believe me, I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Now let me help you.” When I didn’t say a word, she lowered her voice even more. “I’ll be the only one in the boat. You could jump over…”

“What about Yagamata?”

“He knows all hell will break loose and doesn’t want to answer questions on shore. His helicopter will be back for him. He’s headed straight to the Bahamas. He has arrangements to return to Japan.”

I took a small measure of solace in the fact that Yagamata was leaving empty-handed. Lourdes grabbed my hand and laced her fingers through mine. “I could create a diversion for you, Jake.”

Next to the lifeboat, Soto turned and gestured for his daughter. Without a word, she left me and walked toward him. I stayed put and thought about Matsuo Yagamata. He had ordered the killing of Vladimir Smorodinsky and Francisco Crespo.

Francisco Crespo.

How I’ve let you down. I promised your mother I’d take care of you, and I promised myself, too. I wanted to protect you, to return the favor. Okay, so you were never going to win the Congeniality Award. But who knows what you went through in Severo Soto’s workers’ paradise? I remember tossing the ball with you one day in the postage-stamp backyard behind your mother’s place. The clothesline was heavy with drying laundry. You wore my jersey, and it hung to your knees. You couldn’t catch a football with a butterfly net, but you yelped and scampered and we had fun, then ate your mom’s arroz con polio with flan for dessert.

On the shore, lights flicked on along the boardwalk that fronted the beach. I could barely make out the rocky groin that jutted into the sea. Below us, a lifeboat was being lowered into the water. Lourdes sat alone, looking straight ahead, holding her seat as the boat stuttered down two sturdy lines toward the sea.

A boom-boom from the shoreline startled me. Above us, the fireworks had started. Great flashes of yellows and greens, an occasional burst of crimson. Starbursts of silver floated toward the sea.

I turned to Xavier. “You’re going to die, muerte, for nothing. Nada.”

Overhead, a whoosh of a rocket, then a pop-pop-pop like cannon fire. A shower of sapphire streaks fell from the sky.

“C’mon, whadaya say we go down into the hold and stop this. Pare! ” I motioned to I’m-not-Jose. With my index finger, I pretended I was firing a gun at Xavier.

The two of them chattered something in Spanish. All I recognized was “ Estas loco,” and after Xavier looked at his watch, “ Cinco minutos.”

Oh, shit. No time to use my impressive powers of persuasion. “You guys are really a couple of assholes,” I said, laughing. They laughed, too.

Overhead, between the whistles and ka-booms of the fireworks, I heard the whompeta-whompeta of the Italian helicopter as it descended toward the stern. Over the side, the lifeboat was nearly in the water. I heard Lourdes’s shouts even over the roar of the helicopter. She was screaming in Spanish at her father, shaking her fist. Soto and every crewman on deck, including my two companions, were staring at her. If this was the diversion, I didn’t know how it could help me. Everyone’s attention was diverted all right. Everyone was looking straight at the lifeboat. No way I could get to it. Meanwhile, the helicopter touched down.

The helicopter!

I could make a run for it. The lifeboat had reached the water, Lourdes still screaming. I’m-not-Jose was saying something to Xavier, both of them looking toward shore where multicolored laser beams were piercing the sky. I put both hands on the rail and vaulted over, landing twelve feet below on the steel deck. I hit and rolled, trying to take the pressure off the knees. It worked, but I turned an ankle, and my shoulder thudded hard against the deck.

I limped toward the stern and the helicopter. Yagamata was just ducking under the whirling blades when I called his name. He stopped and turned, looking puzzled. He stood, frozen for a moment. Then, realization crossing his face, he rushed toward the door of the passenger cabin. He had it half open when I slammed into him. It was picture perfect, just the way Coach Sandusky used to teach it. My shoulders were squared up, my legs pumping. I didn’t have the leverage because of my throbbing ankle, but still it was a good stick. I caught him in the middle of the back and smashed him into the door. I could feel the wind go out of him.

With my arms still around him, I slipped a hand into his suit pocket and pulled out the velvet pouch. A second later, the little gold train was in my hand. I backed off a few feet and held the chain over my head, twirling it like a lariat. The rail was only six feet away.

Yagamata turned and faced me. He was breathing hard, his face red. “Are you crazy? What are you doing?”

“Hitching a ride.”

“My pilot is armed. He will shoot you if you enter the aircraft.”

“Tell him to throw his gun onto the deck.”

“No.”

“Then say good-bye to the little engine that could.”

By now, my two companions had scrambled down a ladder, and I’m-not-Jose was pointing a. 45 at me.

I positioned myself in front of the rear gas tank on the helicopter. “Tell him to back off.”

“Don’t shoot!” Yagamata yelled at I’m-not-Jose.

“Take me with you!” I ordered.

“You’re crazy! They’ll shoot us down.” He was shouting, but his voice barely carried over the roar of the helicopter.

“Your train’s going into the drink in ten seconds.”

I leaned over the rail and dangled the trinket of an emperor.

“No! Something must survive this madman. Give it to me!”

“Take me. Tell the pilot. Now!”

“Give it to me,” he repeated, his mouth tight.

Over my shoulder, I saw Xavier hustle toward the hoist where the lifeboat had descended. Probably to get orders from Soto. I’m-not-Jose still had the gun trained on me. I wondered how much time I had.

Yagamata yelled something in Japanese, lowered his head, and came at me, flailing away. Like much in life, it caught me by surprise. His fingernails tore at my neck as he reached for the train. I ducked and pivoted away from his claws, intending to smash him in the gut with a left. Which is precisely when my ankle decided to desert me. It gave way and I dropped to the deck. Yagamata grabbed the gold train from my hand.

I started to get up, but he was behind me. He was quicker than he looked. I felt a sudden, sharp pressure on my neck. He was using the train as a garrote. It bit hard into my flesh, choking me and drawing blood at the same time. He had one hand on the engine and one on the caboose. I struggled to my feet, wheezing, and he leapt onto my back, inexorably tightening the chain. I tried to hit him with a backward elbow smash but just grazed his ribs. I tried to work a finger under the chain but couldn’t do it. My Adam’s apple wanted to explode.

I staggered in the direction of the helicopter, wanting to turn and bang him backward into the fuselage. Still he rode me, his knees digging into my sides. I straightened up and tried to shake him off. I heard the piercing shriek of giant rockets from the shore and the whompeta-whompeta of the helicopter. I caught a sidelong glance of I’m-not-Jose, now with Soto and Xavier standing next to him. Three guns were pointed at us.

I took two more steps, and again I tried to buck Yagamata off, hoping to flip him over my head, praying my ankle would hold. I have strong legs from the days of running up stadium steps in full gear, but still he stayed put.

My energy was nearly gone, my vision blurred. Loss of air was dragging me under. Another step, one last try. I flexed my knees, lowered my head, pushed up on his legs with my hands. Then I jumped, a little hippity-hop, a bucking stallion desperately trying to toss its rider.

I felt the pressure lessen on my neck and heard a whompeta-clunk-whompeta.

Everything happened so fast. So many sensations.

My load weighed less.

My shoulders and face were covered with something red and sticky.

Everything seemed so quiet, though it couldn’t have been.

Soto, Xavier, and I’m-not-Jose were looking down at a spot on the deck a yard in front of Soto’s feet. Looking up at them was Matsuo Yagamata. Or, more precisely, his severed head. His eyes were open. So was his mouth. He seemed startled.

The rest of him was still on my back, my arms clenched tight against his legs. A gurgling sound came from above me. Blood sputtered from what had been his neck and flowed down his body, drenching me. I hurled the body to the deck where it landed with a thud. The dull, heavy weight of a dead man.

The pilot revved his engine and took off, and I rolled underneath the ascending helicopter. Soto shouted something at his crewmen. I hoped it was “Don’t shoot.”

The first shot pinged metal. I hit the deck and rolled toward a ladder that descended into the hold. The second shot was wild, probably high.

I hobbled down a ladder into the hold, hearing shouts above me. It couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds. Another minute to get in, maybe take a shotgun blast in the chest, but maybe the gun would jam, and I’d take down the crewman at the control panel.

I was at the steel hatch. Door closed. I tried turning the wheel. It didn’t budge. In frustration, I slammed the wheel with my list, cursing. It still didn’t move, but my hand flared with pain, then went numb. I whacked the door with my shoulder. An old rotator cuff with a grudge reminded me of its existence. The compartment was sealed tight from the inside. I couldn’t open the door with a blowtorch.

So this was it. Not even a chance to die like a man.

Footsteps on the ladder above. I turned and headed for the stern. My ankle was starting to swell, and I was galumphing along at a half trot, half limp. I heard a tinkling sound that seemed to be coming from me. I touched my neck. The gold train, dripping Yagamata’s blood, was still hanging there, the engine and caboose intertwined into a knot.

Two compartments to pass through to get to the stern. Shouts from behind now. I forced myself not to turn. A gunshot, ricocheting off metal, then another, this one banging loud and close.

I crouched low and stumbled along. At the same time, I was zigzagging as much as I could along a narrow corridor. It reminded me of hopping through the tires on the practice field, the coaches studying stopwatches.

Time.

How much time?

Two minutes maybe.

The anchor chain came through a well at the stern. Thick, greasy steel links. I took two giant steps and leapt onto the chain. Then, squeezing my body against it, I lowered myself through the well. In ten seconds I was in open space and could drop into the water. Except that my jeans were stuck. Somehow the fabric was caught in a joint between two links of the chain. I pulled against it, but succeeded only in lodging it deeper. Then a grinding sound from above me, the motor that operated the winch. They were hauling the anchor, trying to pull me back into the well.

A huge explosion above me-God, this is it! — a shower of light, and I winced and closed my eyes. I opened them to discover a sunflower of exploding fireworks, a symphony of cannon bursts. The Grand Finale of the celebration.

I dangled there a moment, then felt the great steel chain rising. As it did, the links creaked. I pulled back once again, harder, and felt the rip as I tore out of my blood-soaked jeans and tumbled into the water. I started swimming, a version of the Australian crawl fueled by overwhelming fear. After ten strokes, I discovered I wasn’t moving. I floated for a second, getting my bearings, and was swept backward. I was pointed toward shore but was moving toward Bimini.

Riptide.

Of course. We were about an hour from low tide. Strong southeasterly winds had built up the surf. The churning water carves depressions in the sandbar along the beach. Water falls in from both sides of the depression, and rips back out to sea, carrying out shells, fish, and scared-to-death lawyers.

I turned around, heading away from shore, and started swimming again, this time with the rip current. Mark Spitz couldn’t have kept up with me on his best day. I felt strong and smooth as the current lifted and carried me. I fought the urge to look over my shoulder to see how much distance I had put between myself and the freighter. I just kept reaching and pulling and kicking…

And then the blast.

It lifted me from the water and tossed me down again.

And then the second one. The first, I figured, was the plastique, tearing apart the hold, smashing every statue and coin and painting and artistic doodad Foley could steal. The second would have been the fuel tanks, blowing the freighter apart.

I don’t know how far I was thrown. I remember I could no longer swim. My ears rang and my head throbbed and my limbs were numb. I floated on my back, and then face-down, and then on my back again. Salty waves washed over me, filling my nose and mouth, and I went under. Was I drowning along with the da Vincis and Renoirs and Gauguins? I came up and floated some more, opened my eyes, and couldn’t see.

I rode a breaking wave toward shore, but the riptide pulled me out again. I went under, came up, and bumped into something. I flipped onto my back, looked up, and saw a face peering down at me. Pale, with wet dark hair plastered to her forehead. Her mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear a thing.

Above me, the sky was aflame. The water stank of oil and diesel fuel, and fire skittered across the surface of the waves. A piece of hot metal brushed my leg. What looked like burning newspaper floated in the breeze.

Again, I looked at her face, Lourdes leaning out of the lifeboat, reaching for me. I couldn’t hear, but in the shimmering light of the blazing ocean I saw her mouth my name. She reached down and tried to hoist me up. She couldn’t do it. I struggled to pull myself over the side of the lifeboat, but fell back into the water.

Finally, she wrapped a line around me and let me float there alongside. She put a hand on my cheek, cupping my head. When she withdrew, her hand was covered with blood and she shrank back.

Then I rolled over again onto my back and watched the flames dance across the water, black smoke billowing into the nighttime sky.

My head stopped throbbing, and I suddenly wanted to sleep. I felt no pain. No fear. No nothing.